


Finding Yes

by RogueBelle



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s04e14 Return to Grace, F/M, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-02-05 18:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12800163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueBelle/pseuds/RogueBelle
Summary: Kira Nerys makes a decision to join Dukat in his fight against the Klingons. Is it only her passion for fighting, her soldier's instincts, drawing her to this path? Or is there something else, something to do with the enticing charms of a certain blue-eyed Cardassian? Canon-divergent AU from "Return to Grace".





	1. Every Reason to Say No

**Author's Note:**

> [Author’s Note: Cards on the table, I haven’t finished watching DS9 yet, having come to the party 25 years late. Though I remain unspoiled, I assume it eventually all ends in tears, for Dukat, at least, one way or another. But as soon as I saw “Return to Grace”, I knew this was an AU I had to write.  
> [So - canon compliant up to almost the end of “Return to Grace”, more or less. I may be conveniently choosing to forget that Kira/Shakaar is a thing. ;) And then… we diverge…]

 

Dukat delayed giving the order to go to warp -- not least because he had not yet decided upon a heading. Much of that determination rested with the red-headed Bajoran woman currently pacing back and forth in the corridor between the crew quarters and the bridge.

He smiled. He had not intended to have this conversation in a hallway, but it did mean that he had caught Kira Nerys, for once, without a damned PADD in her hand, and without access to the banks of displays and interfaces that there were on the bridge -- without all those crutches she used to avoid eye contact with him. Oh, he knew part of it was instinctive on her part: an ever-busy mind, always seeking out action, something to  _ do _ . He admired that in her, the restless tenacity. And part of it was to communicate his own inconsequence to him -- or so she wanted him to believe. Dukat had never let that trouble him. Major Kira could stare into the screens as though there were always something more worthy of her attention than conversation with him, but he knew she could never tune out his words as thoroughly as she pretended. 

Because part of it, he always knew, was because however much she tried to deny it, she was as affected by his presence as he was by hers, and she directed her attention elsewhere to cover for that vulnerability. What pleasure, then, that in this of all moments, she would have to face him bereft of such shielding.

“Well, Major,” he said, striding slowly towards her. “Have you had time to find that ‘yes’?”

Kira’s head jerked up; he hadn’t been trying to startle her, but if he caught her slightly off-footed, so much the better. “I--” So lovely, those brown eyes, blinking up at him rapidly as she sought to regain her composure. Her gaze flicked to the wall, almost reflexively.  _ ‘No viewscreens here, Nerys.’ _ Then she looked back at him, her breath catching in her throat for a moment before she said, “I’ve been considering your… suggestion.”

Dukat’s eyes lit up. It was what he had hoped for, but he realized it was not at all what he’d expected. It wasn’t a yes --  _ yet _ . But if he had managed to wedge the door open enough for her to consider his proposal…

He could sense it, the fervent desperation lurking in her heart, the ferocious beating of wings against cage bars. So few of the Bajorans had ever been able to summon that sort of fierce yearning for freedom. Most who had not rolled over for the Cardassians had fled the system, abandoning their home -- perhaps a sensible course of action, but not an admirable one. Inadequate though the Resistance had always been, Dukat had felt a degree of respect for the only representatives of the species who had any fight in them.  _ ‘And if I can just tease that out…’ _

He’d almost had her convinced, the first time he had brought it up. Just the fact that she hadn’t turned him down immediately -- or thrown something at him for the impudence of the suggestion -- proved that. A little more persuasion, and he might get precisely what he wanted -- what he had wanted for a very long time. Kira Nerys, at his side, fighting  _ with _ him rather than against him. With enough time, alliance could become companionship, and companionship might become-- 

“I’m not fully convinced that you’ve thought this through,” she said, interrupting that pleasant thought. “The life you’re contemplating, it’s not a game, Dukat. And it’s much easier to get into than out of.”

He cleared his throat slightly. “I shall endeavor not to be insulted at your assumption of my haste.”

Keenness flashed in her eyes. “I practically saw you make the decision in front of my eyes, Dukat. Hardly a lengthy contemplation.” 

“Which does not necessarily make the decision ill-considered,” Dukat said, his voice growing dark. He would not have her thinking this was some folly he would swiftly abandon. “I will follow this path to honor or to death, Major. I see no other path worth choosing. Oh, yes, I could slink back to Cardassia and take a hollow position, military advisor to a council with no military intentions.” His lip curled. “No. I cannot resign myself to such an indignity. I believe the tedium would be the end of me. So I choose this, instead -- clear-eyed and in full possession of my wits, Major, let me assure you of that. I will be a hero for Cardassia’s sake, even if they refuse to recognize me as such.” She looked about to say something, but a barking laugh escaped her instead. He tilted his head to the side. “I confess, laughter was not the response I anticipated, Major. Is there something you would care to elucidate?”

She sighed, shaking her head. “I just caught myself about to tell you something I once told Thomas Riker, of all people.”

“Thomas Riker, the Maquis renegade?” he asked, a slight growl in his voice. He wasn’t sure he liked where this was going.

“The very same.”

Laughter was still playing with her lips, and as attractive as that was, Dukat shifted irritably. “And what wisdom, praytell, did you bestow upon that unfortunate accident of fate and transporter technology that you believe I might also benefit from?”

She did not answer immediately, but fixed Dukat with a long, unblinking gaze -- her thoughts occupying her enough, it seemed, to make her forget to pretend there was somewhere else she’d rather be. “I told him that terrorists don’t get to be heroes.” 

So candid, Kira Nerys, so blunt and unsubtle. Despite her utter lack of education in the rhetorical graces, she did sometimes have a striking way with words.

“You’re about to step off the path, Dukat. It may feel -- it may  _ be  _ \-- righteous, here in the wilds. It’s certainly exciting. But it’s awfully hard to find the path again, once you’ve abandoned it.”

“I didn’t step off the path, Major,” Dukat reminded her. “I was pushed off of it.”

“No,” Kira insisted, dark eyes hard. “You  _ chose _ . You chose to find Ziyal, you chose to let her live, you chose to take her to Cardassia. Own that, at least.” He tilted his head, angled towards his collarbone;  _ mild concession.  _ “And now, when offered restoration to your former position, you’re choosing to abandon it. You may be right to do so. But… it’ll change things. Change  _ you _ . You want to reclaim all you lost, but…” She shook her head. “You might not find that path again. So if you’re just of a mind to play rebel for a little while--”

“No,” he said, firmly. “No, this is no game. I am sure of myself and of my course. I know what kind of life I want to live, and what kind would be a life hardly worth the name. The question  _ is _ \--” And now he chose his moment to move towards her, one swift step that brought him nearly touching her. “Do you?”

She was breathing faster; she always did, when he stood like this, close enough to catch her scent. He could never quite figure out all the notes in it: bergamot, he thought, and something lighter, more floral. Not a perfume, though; she would hardly be so fanciful as to prioritize olfactory adornment while on a mission. No, this was her natural scent -- pheromones, more properly, and utterly enchanting.

“Do I what?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, raspier than it had been while she lectured him.

“Do you know what sort of life you want?” he asked, slow and deliberate in each consonant, each rounded vowel. “I know a desk would never suit me. Are you  _ sure _ it suits you so well as you think?”

She settled her shoulders back. “I know my own mind perfectly well, Dukat.”

“Oh? Consider,  _ Major _ ,” he said, applying mockery to the title. “When have you most felt your heart pounding? Not in fear for your life, but in pure raging joy, the in the glory of a fight? When did you last feel  _ delight  _ in your work? I think you’ll find it was just a few hours ago. And when did you last feel your work was what came naturally, not something you were being trained to like a bit and harness?” He was irritating her; he could see that in the flash of her eyes and the stubborn set of her jaw -- but he was getting through, too. She hadn’t interrupted him, after all. “When did you last feel that  _ rightness _ , where you knew you could find the answers, where your instincts served you impeccably? When did your work last leave you feeling  _ alive  _ and energized?” He let that question hang in the air for a brief moment; her eyelashes were fluttering, her breath uneven. “ _ Not _ , I think, standing behind an administrative computer on a trading station.”

Her lips parted, but she said nothing. How lovely she looked, warmed by the strange red light of the Klingon ship.

Then, an interruption: “Sir?” 

Damar’s voice, crackling over the coms. Dukat replied without taking his eyes from Kira. “Go on.”

“Ziyal found another problem down in Engineering. We can fix it, but it’s going to be an hour before we can depart.”

“Acknowledged. See to it.” He cocked his head at Kira. “It seems you have a little longer to contemplate, Major.”

The conflict written on her face almost made him want to keep pressing her, but he sensed that to do so now might be overplaying his hand. Kira was both stubborn and defensive. Push her too far, and she’d pull the opposite direction just to be contrary. So he inclined his head, signaling  _ respect _ , turned, and went back to the bridge.

 

*

 

_ ‘Idiot!’  _ As soon as Dukat was out of earshot, Kira kicked the wall.  _ ‘You know better than to listen to that snake!’  _ His words were insidious, their rolling baritone wrapping around her good senses and shaking them loose of their moorings.

She slumped against the wall, rubbing her forehead with the heel of her hand.  _ ‘This is not difficult, Nerys. Get it together.’ _

So many “no”s, as he had rightly guessed. So many reasons to tell him to take her straight back to DS9. So many reasons to tell him to go to hell and leave her be.

Then why couldn’t she seem to find the words?

Somewhere along the line, things had shifted.

The Dukat she had seen the past few days was… different. Not entirely, of course. He was still utterly incorrigible, still flirtatious in a way that went past persistence and into outright annoyance, and he still showed that volatility that made him so dangerous, able to go from affable and charming to ice-cold and ruthless within the space of a heartbeat. And the  _ arrogance _ , that core of conviction that made him so unshakable -- that, she knew, would never fade.

But in other ways, Kira had to admit, he had changed, or at least shown aspects of himself she had only glimpsed before. He could be apologetic. “Forgive me” were words she’d never expected to heard tripping off a Cardassian tongue. He could set his pride and stubbornness aside long enough to take suggestions. He might argue and attempt to counter her every point, but he allowed persuasive arguments to convince him rather than digging in his heels for no reason. And if Ziyal were to be believed, he even regretted the Occupation…

Then there was the way he behaved with his crew. Oh, he strode around the ship the same way he had through DS9 during the Occupation, with an expectation of being obeyed. It was an assumption of command that was born, not learned; Kira had never seen such a casually domineering attitude in Federation officers. And yet, he could be at ease with his men as well. Chummy, even, but without ever undermining his authority.  _ ‘And the wretched man does love to laugh.’ _

She thought of how easily he could shift posture, sliding from a relaxed lounge to steel-stiff attention. He had placed himself beneath her during several of their discussions. Was it only for comfort? Kira suspected not. The Cardassians placed such value on communication, and not only verbal. They had a gestural language as well; posture could mean much. So what had he been trying to convey? Not submission, surely, but some degree of… familiarity? attentiveness? some backward display of respect?

_ ‘Or… friendship?’ _

His casual attitude had lured her, more than once, into talking with him as she would a comrade. He always overstepped, in his usual high-handed way, bringing her back to herself, but when they were making plans, she had felt… excited. Eager, even, to share her thoughts with him. 

Fighting beside him on the Klingon ship had been thrilling. As much as she hated to admit that, she could not deny the delight of pure adrenaline that had coursed through her. They had moved in concert, an instinctive balance between them. It usually took time, long acquaintance, to develop that sort of synchronous combat, but she and Dukat had fallen into it immediately. And it had not occurred to her to mistrust him, to watch her own back. She knew Dukat was watching it for her. 

Strange, that.

She shook her head as though that might clear the troubling thoughts.  _ ‘None of that means anything! Prophets…’  _ Annoyed with herself, she began pacing in the corridor again.  _ ‘You know better than this, Nerys. You know better than to let him tempt you.’ _ Even that word troubled her. That Gul Dukat, of all the beings in the galaxy, might be presenting her with anything like temptation…  _ ‘Sly words, that’s all he has.’  _ Sly words and that piercing azure gaze, that magnetic presence...

Loath though she was to admit it, he had started to get through to her. His arguments rattled around in her mind, no matter how she tried to dispel them. 

_ ‘Do you know what sort of life you want?’  _

Sisko had been trying to make a diplomat out of her for years. That was the Federation way, she supposed, but hadn’t she been complaining about it to Julian just before this ill-fated trip started?

Diplomacy went against all her instincts. Her actions had proved that more than once since starting this catastrophe of a mission. She couldn’t keep herself from telling Dukat how to improve his weapons systems. She had just  _ had _ to point out the most vulnerable point on the Klingon ship.  _ She _ had been the one suggesting pursuing the Klingons,  _ she _ had outfitted a freighter with disruptors,  _ she  _ had transported them all onto the Klingon ship, for the Prophets’ sake!

Without hesitation, she had made those suggestions. It had all seemed so natural... a reflex, even.

Was Dukat right about her? She had seen the fury and frustration on his face, when he had realized the Cardassian government wanted him to take up the shell of a post. To be an administrator, a bureaucrat -- the very things he had thrown in her face, that the Federation had made of her. She hardly felt that burning resentment that was fueling Dukat -- but was that because the change had come on so gradually?

Kira stopped in her pacing, leaning against the wall again. She stood there a long moment, then drew a long, deep breath, scarcely able to believe what she was steeling herself to do.

Then she pushed off of the wall and pointed her steps towards the bridge.

*


	2. Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kira's made her decision -- but there are still a few details to iron out before she and Dukat can take on the Klingon Empire.

He was beaming. The triumphant glee on his face was almost enough to make Kira reconsider her decision. _‘Anything that brings Gul Dukat this much joy is likely not the wisest choice I’ve ever made...’_

“Major Kira,” he said, the words half a pleasured sigh. “I really can’t express how glad I am that you’ve arrived at this conclusion.”

“If you’re at a loss for words, I’ll settle for a grateful silence,” she quipped, folding her arms across her chest.

His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled with genuine delight, deep beneath those hooding ridges. Kira was annoyed with herself for noticing; it was too endearing a detail to be aware of in someone she disliked so intensely. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly do you the discredit of not at least _trying_ to honor your wisdom and bravery with a few well-chosen phrases to mark the occasion. What _fire_ you have in you, Major! And how much more brightly it will burn when you give it air and space. How--”

“Okay, that’s enough--” she said, holding up a hand. “Let’s get one thing very straight, Dukat. This isn’t about you, and it’s not even about me, but you were right when you said that if Cardassia falls, Bajor will be next. I’m taking the best option to protect my home, as I always have.”

He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at her slightly. He was still smiling, but it was tinged with something else now, some shade of satisfaction that she could not quite parse. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, Major,” he said in a magnanimous tone, making an open gesture with one hand. “You are, I have observed, so very good at lying to yourself. No matter. Your actions speak enough.” His expression brightened again. “I shall content myself with the pleasure of your company, whatever your reasons for it, and with the satisfaction of watching you excel. As I have often said, you are a remarkable woman. What you’ll be able to achieve free of the Federation leash—“

“There’s still Ziyal to consider,” Kira said quickly, eager to spin his focus somewhere else. “She won’t like it, but… Dukat, you know she can’t stay here.”

The sunny expression dropped from his face. “She belongs with her father.”

“She deserves a life of safety and comfort, Dukat,” Kira argued. “Wasn’t that what you were trying to give her on Cardassia?”

“Circumstances have, obviously, changed.”

“But what’s best for her hasn’t.” Kira shifted her weight onto one hip. “You wanted me here for my opinions and advice, correct?”

“Among other things…” Dukat murmured.

Kira chose to ignore any potentially salacious connotations of that phrasing. “Then you should give weight to what I know. A life like this -- always on the run, always outgunned, waking every morning knowing you might be dead by nightfall -- it’s no life for someone young and vibrant and innocent.”

“She’s not a child,” he said, voice rumbling. “And she’s got a core of steel.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Kira replied. “But she deserves better than a life on the fringes.”

“And where else could she live?” Dukat said, rounding on her. “She belongs nowhere, not on Cardassia, not on Bajor.”

Kira had been contemplating that. There _were_ places on Bajor that Ziyal would be welcomed. She wasn’t the only half-caste Cardassian bastard, after all, and Kira had soft-hearted friends that would welcome any stray soul in need of shelter. That proposal, though, would likely little appeal to Dukat, so instead, she offered, “She could live on the station.” His eyes shot wide with surprise, then his brow furrowed in skepticism. “She’d be safe. She’d want for nothing. She could find work, if she wanted it, or pursue her education.” Her lips quirked up on one side. “And it’s one place _you_ would still be welcome -- or, at least, permitted -- to visit her. Assuming we all live long enough for that.”

Dukat tapped his lips with his thumb. “You… may have a point.” He raised his eyes to the glowing-red ceiling, glanced around at the Klingon tech all around them. “We will be taking incredible risks. If anything happened to her…”

“You’d never forgive yourself.”

“I love her.”

“I know.” Strange, that awareness. Once she would have thought him utterly beyond such an emotion. Certainly beyond such genuine attachment. When had that changed? _‘Dozaria. Naprem’s grave.’_ The tears he had not been swift enough to hide from her, the haunted hollowness in his voice.

They were both still and quiet for a moment -- an unusual state for Dukat, and one which gave Kira a rare opportunity to observe him without bracing for the inevitable next provocation. She so infrequently actually looked _at_ him. Once, that had been because she simply couldn’t stand the sight of him -- the symbol of all that she and Bajor had suffered. Recently, though, it had much more to do with a discomfort she could not quite put a name to. The intensity of his gaze, the piercing blue so boldly accentuated by the prominent ridges circling from forehead to cheekbone, felt like it could shoot a hook straight into her soul. Rather than give him the chance, she usually looked away, without really knowing what risk she sought to avoid.

 _‘Damned infuriating Cardassian…’_ Just being in the same room with him could be an exhausting exercise in holding her temper in check and keeping her head on straight. _‘One more thing I’ll have to get used to, as though Klingon tech and piracy weren’t enough…’_

Infuriating, but fascinating all the same.

Dukat gave himself a little shake, making Kira wonder what thoughts he was trying to dispel. “So!” He slapped both hands on the armrests of his chair, then pushed himself up from the seat. He strolled over to Kira, shifting into the aspect of himself that she was beginning to think of as ‘Captain Dukat’ --  an easy confidence, seemingly relaxed yet ready to spring into action, like a hunting cat prowling its domain. “As her father, I am afraid I must concur with your assessment. She cannot stay here, and Deep Space Nine is likely as safe a place as any.” His thin grey lips quirked up at one side, and he bent his head towards her almost conspiratorially. “Speaking as the captain of this ship, however, I confess that I am loath to part with a promising young engineer.”

The paternal pride was so evident that Kira had to smile. “She’s a very bright young lady. But a Klingon ship would be…” She glanced around the bridge, wincing. “A steep learning curve.”

“Hm. Too true.”

His right hand was fidgeting slightly, the tip of his thumb running across all four fingers in quick succession. A nervous tic, betraying his own misgivings about this endeavor? Or was it meant to communicate something else?

“And you, Major?” Dukat glanced sideways at her. “What are your plans? Aside from the nasty shock we’ll give dear Captain Sisko by hovering outside Terok Nor in a Klingon bird-of-prey, he’s likely to want an explanation as to your… intentions. That may be a conversation you find it difficult to extricate yourself from.”

His voice was casual, but something in his posture communicated… _‘Fear?’_ It hardly seemed possible, not in Gul Dukat. _‘He’s worried. Worried that Sisko might talk me out of this mad impulse…’_ Kira wasn’t sure whether she was flattered or offended -- another feeling she suspected she would have to get accustomed to. _‘He really does want me around…’_

He also had a point: an extended conversation with Sisko would only bring up considerations she was actively trying to ignore. _‘Is it cowardice, to avoid that? Or merely a way of ensuring I stick to the path I’ve chosen, that I don’t let myself waffle…’_

Either way, returning to DS9 herself and having that conversation was likely to at least delay, if not defer, making plans to harass the Klingons. But then, Captain Sisko was not the only officer on the station. “I may have an idea…”

 

*

 

She had come alone, as Kira requested. That meant, however, there would be no one to mind the shuttlecraft if she left it, so Kira, Dukat, and Ziyal transported from the Klingon bird-of-prey to the _Volga_ to meet with Lieutenant Commander Jadzia Dax.

While Dukat made his farewells to his daughter, Kira thanked Dax for her assistance. “The replicators on this ship leave a lot to be desired when it comes to wardrobe options,” she said, gratefully shouldering the bag that Jadzia had surreptitiously thrown together for her. Her own clothes, or newly replicated ones, suitable for combat. No uniforms. “Particularly for someone who doesn’t exactly have the height and girth of your average Klingon.”

“I can imagine,” Dax replied. “I hope it’s alright that I didn’t grab too many personal effects. I wasn’t sure what you might want, and--”

“No, that’s perfectly fine.” She’d already been on one ship that had gotten blown up in the past week; if circumstances repeated themselves, the less she had on board, the less she’d lose. _‘Assuming_ _I_ _make it off…’_ But to Dax, she just said, “I’ve certainly done without creature comforts before. We’ll just have to hope the Starfleet treatment hasn’t spoiled me too much!”

“Is there anything -- besides the, ah, special passenger -- that you’d like me to take back to DS9?”

Nodding, Kira passed Dax two chips for her PADD. “One of those is my report on the destruction of the outpost on Korma. Everything Starfleet needs to know.” A quick flick of Dax’s immaculately manicured eyebrow indicated that she had not missed Kira’s careful choice of language. There was much, after all, that Starfleet did _not_ strictly _need_ to know. “The other is my formal request for an unspecified leave of absence from the Bajoran Militia. Find Administrator Payrin in the personnel office.” Kira’s lips quirked into a smile. “He’s terrified of me. He’ll approve the leave without asking questions. Then it’ll be a done deal before you take it to Sisko.” Kira lowered her eyes for a moment; the idea that she was walking out on Sisko _was_ troubling, and there was no getting around that. That she was deceiving him with such deliberate vagueness, even worse.

“And… what _am_ I taking to the Captain? Or to everyone else, for that matter?”

Kira sighed and rubbed at her forehead with the back of her hand. “I don’t know. Whatever you think they’ll believe? That I’ve gone on a spiritual quest, or-- or some deep cover mission for Bajor.”

Jadzia looked thoughtful for a moment. “I _could_ just let Quark ‘overhear’ a series of unrelated and random words adjacent to your name and see what the station comes up with.”

Kira laughed. “Well, if rumor manufactures anything suitably entertaining, I trust you’ll write it down to tell me later.” She paused, then added, “And there will be a later, Dax. I promise. I’ll be back. I don’t know how long I’ll be away, but… I’m coming back.”

They both knew it was a promise she couldn’t make; Dukat’s offer wouldn’t have been half as appealing if it hadn’t been dangerous. She wanted Jadzia to know, though, that she wasn’t abandoning the station or her friends, that she _intended_ to return. That she would, if she lived. _‘I made it through the Occupation. I’ve made it through abductions, Dominion attacks, warmongering Klingons… I’ll make it through this. I’m coming back.’_

Slowly at first, then with deliberate swiftness, Kira removed the combadge from her uniform. “Incompatible with the communication systems on the bird-of-prey,” she explained, with a laughing shrug. “Damn thing’s been on the fritz for days, so I’m better off without it. It’s a good thing I learned Kardasi during the Occupation, since I may be without a universal translator for a while.”

When she pressed the combadge into Dax’s hand, Dax gripped her fingers for a moment. “Nerys…” she said, lowering her voice. “I won’t ask if you’re sure you want to do this. I know you wouldn’t be doing it, if you weren’t.”

“I appreciate that.” It was one of the reasons Kyra had contacted Dax rather than anyone else on the station.

“I do want to ask, though -- Are you going to be okay?” She glanced down the corridor, to where Dukat appeared to be mid-paternal-lecture; Kyra could recognize that supercilious posture a klick away. Ziyal didn’t seem to mind, but was nodding, wide-eyed and serious. “I mean, with--”

“I don’t know,” Nerys sighed. “In all honesty, Jadzia, I… I have no idea.” She shifted the weight of her rucksack slightly. “I know to you it must seem like I’ve gone completely mad, and maybe I have.”

Jadzia’s eyes, so kind but so insightful, rested on Kyra for a moment. “No,” she said. “I actually wasn’t particularly surprised at all. I’m apprehensive -- not least because of the sheer number of ways this plan provides for you to get yourself killed --  but I wasn’t surprised.”

“You weren’t?” Kira exclaimed, her face screwing up in confusion. “Well, that makes one of us. I’m so astonished at myself I’m half wondering if I’ve hallucinated this entire misadventure.”

“Well, maybe you’ll call _me_ crazy, but I feel there’s something almost inevitable about this misadventure, if that’s what you want to call it.” Jadzia glanced over her shoulder, where Dukat seemed to have wrapped up his admonishments and advice. Smiling, he cupped Ziyal’s cheek, then pulled her into a fond embrace, her head nestling against his shoulder. “He is not what I thought he was, when we first came to DS9,” Dax said “I’m not sure what he _is_ … but he’s not what I thought.”

“What he is…” Kira repeated, shaking her head. “The Prophets alone must know, because I’m sure I don’t.”

“Maybe,” Jadzia said, and Kira thought she caught a mischievous glint in her friend’s eyes, “they’ve given you a chance to find out.”

 

*


	3. Translation and Transition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their new circumstances force both Kira and Dukat to make some adjustments to their accustomed way of thinking. But who's going to have the upper hand as the power dynamics shift?

Shedding the uniform of the Bajoran militia spawned mixed emotions -- but from a purely physical standpoint, Kira had to admit that she was more comfortable.

Dax had come through for her. Kira had been mildly worried that some of Jadzia’s more fanciful notions might have influenced her wardrobe selection, but she had supplied Kira with eminently practical clothing. She had even taken into consideration that Kira would be living on a ship with environmental controls set for Cardassian comfort: though she did have one set of cold-weather gear, in case they had to land somewhere that would be needed, her trousers were a lightweight canvas, and most of the shirts were sleeveless, variations on the tank tops she typically wore beneath her uniform.

After years in the full coverage of the militia uniform, she did feel a bit exposed -- and she was far from certain how she felt about that on a ship full of Cardassians, who never seemed to take off their armor, much less go about sleeveless.  _ ‘Better than passing out from heat exhaustion, I guess….’ _

As she set to stowing her gear, Kira heard the door next to hers open, followed by voices in conversation, muted through the heavy panels, then fading as the speakers moved away. Since Ziyal had gone, she had quarters to herself. The rest of the crew -- all male, fairly standard for a Cardassian military vessel -- were sharing the other three bunkrooms on this hallway.  _ ‘And Dukat is clear on the other side of the ship, thank the Prophets for small mercies.’ _ The captain’s quarters were directly above the bridge, while the crew quarters were towards the rear of the bird-of-prey, closer to Engineering.

An inquisitive beep from her door interrupted her thoughts. Dukat himself, no doubt.  _ ‘As if summoned by my thoughts…’ _ she thought.  _ ‘Uncanny bastard.’ _

“Come in!” she called, pre-emptively bracing herself for whatever sparring match was about to ensue.

But the Cardassian who entered was not Dukat, but Damar, his dutiful lieutenant. Kira breathed out her tension, her chest feeling oddly deflated.  _ ‘Not disappointed, are you, Nerys?’ _ she chided herself. Of course not. The very thought was ridiculous.

Damar had two large rolls of fabric tucked beneath his arms. “The captain had us inventory the cargo and storage aboard the ship,” he said. “We found these blankets and bedrolls among the cold weather gear. Gul Dukat thought you might like them to supplement the Klingons’ idea of what constitutes an acceptable bunk.”

Kira settled her hands on her hips. “Cushioning for my weak, pink Bajoran flesh, hm?”

“We’re taking a few as well, if it makes you feel any better about it.” Damar glanced past her at one of the empty bunks -- if you could call it that, hardly more than a metallic shelf. “The Klingons are considerably more spartan than we are.”

Kira snorted. It  _ was  _ mollifying to know the Cardassians were taking advantage of the opportunity of extra padding, too, and that it wasn’t some patronizing attempt to coddle her. “All right, give ‘em here. And -- thanks, Damar.” He nodded, with an expression she could not quite read, and departed.

_ ‘And what must  _ _ you _ _ think of me, Damar? Or of your captain, for asking me along on this venture?’ _ Damar had not given any outward sign of aggression or disdain towards her, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Cardassians were practiced liars, developing what they considered to be an art practically from birth. 

_ ‘You are surrounded by serpents, Kira.’ _

Would she spend the coming months waiting for one of them to strike? Or would their loyalty to Dukat be sufficient to make them treat her with respect?

_ That _ thought rankled, that she would be reliant on Dukat in such a way.  _ ‘Well. I think I impressed them, at least, in getting us on this vessel to begin with. If I can just keep the miracles coming, maybe that will suffice.’ _

Strange, to find herself needing to earn the regard of a passel of Cardassian soldiers.  _ ‘But if any of them are determined to look down their pointy noses at me, I’ll at least have the satisfaction of knowing I’ve given them no reason for it.’ _

She unrolled the blankets to air them out before returning to her rucksack. Rummaging through the rest of the bag, Kira suddenly let out a bark of laughter.  _ ‘Well. There’s Dax’s fancy coming through.’ _ Nestled beneath the practical garments and other necessities was a gown of amethyst-colored silk.  _ ‘Now what in the name of the Prophets do you think I’ll need  _ _ this _ _ for, Jadzia?’ _

*

Leaving his precious Ziyal in the hands of a Federation officer had been a challenge, but Dukat found that his mood rebounded considerably once the thing was done and his ship was back on its way towards Cardassian space -- particularly since it was on its way with Kira Nerys onboard.

Too, the feeling of heading  _ towards _ something meaningful had put a fire in his belly like he hadn’t felt in years -- decades, perhaps, not since his earliest days in the military. The Occupation of Bajor had been an endurance trial, always trying to keep a tenuous balance, with the chaos of the rebels on one side and the insistence of Central Command on the other. Keeping the one at bay without cracking down so hard that it encouraged resistance rather than suppressing it, keeping the other content without undermining his own power or letting the demands of more bloodthirsty guls take precedence… A challenge, to be sure, and a worthy one, but rarely exhilarating.

This, though — this action had such a rush behind it, the glorious satisfaction of seizing an impulse and charging into a fray. It was a bit mad, perhaps, a bit wild— but so intoxicating. 

_ ‘If this is how the damned Klingons feel all the time,’  _ he thought, chuckling to himself,  _ ‘perhaps I may begin to understand what drives them.’  _ And understanding an enemy was key to defeating them.

The bridge door hissed open behind him, and when Dukat glanced over his shoulder to see who entered, it took effort to maintain an expression of  _ sang-froid,  _ as the Terrans would put it. Kira Nerys had… changed.

Her sleeveless ivory top allowed him to see the lean musculature of her arms. He recalled her wearing something similar on Dozaria.  _ ‘All the more reason to be grateful the Bajorans tolerate heat far less well than we do.’  _ Her trousers sat low on her hips; she had a phaser on one side of her belt and a knife strapped to the opposite thigh. Every line of her body held an elegant strength, almost feline -- sinuous grace that did nothing to obscure its potential lethality. She looked, in short, a thorough soldier.

It suited her.

The observation was not without its drawbacks. The good Major was delectable enough even in those wretchedly unbecoming militia uniforms. This was bound to be a distraction.  _ ‘No. A  _ _ challenge _ _ for my discipline.’  _ And not an unwelcome one.

“Unsurprisingly, the Klingon sickbay is in a dismal state,” Kira was saying as she came in, fiddling with a pocket fastening. “If we can somehow find a neutral station willing to let us dock and obtain supplies, we should try to stock up on some basics. Until then, we’ll just all have to try not to get stabbed, shot, or burned  _ too  _ badly.”

She had spoken in Bajoran, and he opted to respond in kind. “I assure you that -- unlike our Klingon friends -- I already had the avoidance of grievous wounds as a component of my plan.” 

Kira barely blinked up at him, her focus still on whatever she was so determinedly securing in her pocket, but Dukat had the sense he had surprised her -- a sense confirmed when she replied, in fluent if somewhat atrociously-accented Kardasi. “You don’t need to do that, you know.”

“Do what?” he replied, resolutely staying in Bajoran.

“That.” She finished with her pocket and settled her hands on her hips. “I can understand Kardasi well enough -- and I can speak it to any of your crew who don’t have sufficient Bajoran to understand me.”

“I meant no slight by it,” Dukat said mildly. “It was intended as a kindness. At any rate, I have Kurvot working on retrofitting our translators to be compatible with the Klingon systems. With luck, we’ll have fully operational devices soon. So fear not, Major.” Grinning with a sudden thought, Dukat swiveled his chair to face her more fully. “Actually, it hardly seems appropriate to call you that now, given your unofficial leave from the militia. I suppose it will have to be ‘Nerys’, won’t it?”

That defiant fire lit in her eyes, just as he had hoped. “Kira will do,” she snapped.

Rather than respond, Dukat regarded her a long moment. Kira held perfectly still; she had long since learned not to fidget when under Cardassian scrutiny. She even managed not to flinch when he swiftly rose and stepped towards her. She couldn’t suppress an irritated nostril flare, however -- and immediately wished she had. It wasn’t only the arrogance of him, constantly invading her personal space, trying to imply superiority and affinity at the same time. But when he came so near, she could catch a scent, earthy and just slightly metallic, subtle but impossible to ignore. Cardassian pheromones, and it irritated her beyond belief that she was even aware of them.  _ Not  _ affected by them, certainly not that.

“Alright, then,” he said. His nod was meant to convey acquiescence, but she felt sure he was only conceding one minor point to score a larger at the next opportunity. “ _ Kira _ .”

Almost immediately, she regretted telling him to use any part of her name. The rich baritone of his voice wrapped around its syllables too intimately, and the low musicality that resulted was almost… alluring.

_ ‘Hell. I should’ve insisted on Major, still. I will be when I go back, anyway. And he’s perfectly happy to let everyone keep calling him ‘Gul’ even though he’s been stripped of rank!’ _

Dukat moved away from her, in that sidling way he had, his body kept angled close to hers as long as possible before breaking the not-quite-contact, and he went to a door at the far side of the bridge. He made a short beckoning gesture. “If you would, please. I want to show you something.”

With trepidation that she tried to keep out of her expression, Kira followed.

*

The room appeared to be a small office, but every viewscreen along the walls and two on the desk now showed what Kira could readily recognize as maps of Cardassian space -- including the Badlands and the borders with Bajor and the Federation. “I found the Klingon tactical station as insufficient as you deemed their sickbay,” Dukat said.

“I doubt anyone here was expecting to plan half a war from their bridge,” Kira pointed out.

“Hm. Well, since we  _ are _ , I took it upon myself to do a little reorganizing. I may be in a Klingon ship, but I have no intention of throwing myself into battle in chaotic Klingon fashion. We need a plan.”

Kira drifted closer to one of the maps, showing the swath of systems near the Talarian border. Two quick taps pulled up an overlay of the Klingon target priorities. “Enough of one to get started,” she said. “But that Cardassian rigidity is gonna have to loosen up a bit.” She flicked her eyes up at him, unable to stop a bit of a smile from pulling at her lips. “You’re a pirate now, remember?”

He answered with a smile of his own, though it was a bit rueful. “And that, Kira, is precisely why I require your input. We need, at the least, an initial target. The rest--”

“We’ll make up on the fly.” Her fingers flew over the screen. “Fortunately, the Klingons have almost spoiled us for choice, and since it might be a while before this little bird-of-prey is missed, they’re not likely to change their plans too drastically too soon.”

As soon as their conversation turned towards tactical considerations, Dukat watched the lines of Kira’s body relax noticeably. Her shoulders lost their defensive set, and she no longer stood as though braced to absorb impact. The work absorbed her, and she was at ease in it.  _ ‘I was right about you, Nerys. This is what you were meant for.’  _

Another glance up of those enchanting dark eyes. “Do you want me to draw up a list of suitable targets for us, or just talk you through it?”

“Oh, I think we can dispense with those Starfleet formalities along with my Cardassian rigidity,” he replied. “Please, speak as you find.”

Even when he came to stand at her shoulder, looking down at the screen, she only glanced at him briefly before returning her attention to the map.  _ ‘All she needs is a worthy task,’ _ he thought,  _ ‘and she forgets that she intends to hate me.’ _

And this  _ was _ a worthy task, such as she had been starved for. He had seen the lust for it written clearly on her face from the moment she suggested pursuing the Klingons.

“According to the files we pulled, they should already have hit here by now--” She jabbed a finger at a a station a little ways from Soukara. “If I were them, I’d be using it as a fueling and resupply station. Bring freighters across from Klingon space, unload them and redistribute there. Anything headed to that station will be a plum target.”

“But there are three attacks on Cardassian territories planned for coming weeks,” Dukat said, scrolling down the list plundered from the Klingon logs. His fingers curled into a decisive fist, a quick gesture of  _ certainty _ . “We should focus our efforts on stopping those, not on--”

“When the Resistance hit you where it hurt the most,” Kira interrupted, “was it because we delayed your attacks, or because we screwed up your supply lines?”

Dukat considered a moment. He wanted Klingon blood, and he wanted to protect his people; these foremost considerations had him eager to intercept a strike force, obliterate it before it had the chance to touch anything else of Cardassia’s -- anything else of  _ his _ . But Kira had a point -- he knew how precious shipments could be, particularly when you were behind enemy lines. A failure in that continuity could have devastating chain reactions for Klingons across Cardassian space. So he fanned his fingers out again, palm-up, and nodded, indicating  _ Go on _ .

“So. If we hit the Klingons somewhere between unclaimed space and the Soukaran outpost, we can bloody their noses up good.  _ Then _ \--” She swiped away the information on Soukara, replacing it with a view of the systems closer to Amleth Prime. “We intercept the attacks planned here and here. Before you get too excited, we may not be able to stop those attacks entirely, not with one ship. But we might be able to deplete their forces, slow their advance, and maybe give the targets enough warning to defend themselves -- or to flee.”

Dukat stared at the map, folding his arms in front of him. “And that,” he said, his tone grown dark, “will pass for victory?”

Kira braced her hands on the edge of the table, rocking forward slightly, then cocked her head up at him. “It does when you’re a resistance cell and not a military superpower. It has to. Every minute you buy, for yourself or some ally or some innocent, is a victory.”

For all his eagerness to engage the Klingons in battle, Kira’s words struck home to Dukat just how much of an adjustment to his thinking would be necessary. Not just his thinking, to his very instincts. He was accustomed to bringing overwhelming force to bear. Realigning his tactics for his meager resources would be an ongoing challenge -- the challenge for which he needed dear Kira’s assistance.

Being the underdog did not sit nearly as well with him as being the empire.

_ ‘All that I have lost,’ _ he reminded himself,  _ ‘I will regain. Nothing else is permissible. If this is the course I must take to that end… then I can fit myself to it.’  _ Kira was still looking at him, and he sensed in her half-appraising, half-defiant expression that she was waiting to see what he would do: challenge her, or concede the point.  _ ‘With her help… I can fit myself to it.’ _

He drew a deep breath, then leaned over her shoulder to trace a path on the starchart. “The Klingons are likely to use the same shipping lanes as we always have, particularly that close to the hypernova.” Dukat then jabbed at a few points along the line. “We could set up an ambush at any of these points.”

“A freighter would be easy enough to take on its own,” Kira said. “Unless they’ve gotten really paranoid, the Klingons don’t outfit their freighters with cloaking devices… So the question is, what sort of escort might we be looking at?”

“They wouldn’t waste a Vor’cha class vessel on a freighter,” Dukat opined.

“Unless it was carrying something  _ really  _ important.”

Dukat’s fingers twitched. If a prize like that came within their reach, it would be painful to let it pass.

_ ‘Realign your thinking. Even when it nettles you.’ _

“There are a few places we could wait, cloaked, until we could gauge the escort vessels. And in the meantime, I want us making some… creative enhancements to this ship’s weaponry.”

Kira nodded. “I have some ideas. They’ll burn power hard and might not work for long -- but they’ll hold long enough for a few strikes.”

“And that, too, is a species of victory?”

“ _ That _ ,” Kira said, “is survival. Learning to graft where you can.” Another twitch of an almost-smile, and a head bob that set her earring jangling. “Flexibility, not rigidity. Even when it comes to ship’s systems.”

He turned sideways, resting his hip against the edge of the table. “So, Kira,” he said, and he  _ did _ enjoy caressing the syllables of her name. “If it’s not to be ‘Major’ any longer, then what about ‘First Officer’?”

Kira straightened and turned towards him, blinking rapidly, evidently thrown by his sudden shift in focus. “First Officer? As in--”

“As in the officer second-in-command of this vessel, reporting directly and only to me. Yes.” He fixed her with a steady gaze, taking in the play of emotions across her face: she gave so much away, in those expressive eyes, that charming blush, the slight hitch in her breath, the swallow that moved her throat. Half the time that he provoked her, it was for the fun of watching her reaction, to see if she would stiffen her spine in indignation, or if her lips would part in mute testament to a temptation she refused to acknowledge aloud. “This is the first officer’s office, it would seem. It should be yours.”

“You can’t mean to--” Kira shook her head. The very idea of it beggared belief. “It’ll cause trouble with the rest of the crew. Damar and the others aren’t going to like a Bajoran being promoted above them.”

“Whether they like it or not is insignificant,” Dukat said, waving a hand dismissively. “They will obey my dictate. And anyone who makes his displeasure known will be reminded that he owes his life to  _ this _ Bajoran’s quick and clever thinking.” Kira was about to thank him for the recognition, but as was so often the case, Dukat didn’t know when to stop talking, for he added, “You really are an exceptional member of your species.”

Kira rolled her eyes, settling her hands on her hips. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“And you can’t help but take offense where only compliment is intended.”

Scoffing, Kira broke away from him -- or tried to, but of  _ course  _ he reached out to stop her, taking her by the arm. Not gently,  nor violently — but his hand against her bare skin was a shock. She’d forgotten what she was wearing — or, more pertinently, what she  _ wasn’t _ . She shoved away the sensation of vulnerability.  _ ‘As though I need sleeves to protect myself from him.’  _ Biting down on the inside of her cheek, Kira cast her gaze to the ceiling, awash in red lights. For a moment, she had also forgotten, or almost forgotten, who she was dealing with. She supposed she ought to be grateful, that his arrogance always got the better of him.

“Kira, you have been the First Officer of a major space station for years now. Could every Bajoran hold that position, particularly with the storms you’ve weathered? I know not every Cardassian could.” He turned her to face him again, and little thought she wanted to be mollified, she offered no resistance other than a pointed sigh. “I intended only to underscore your outstanding capability. You continually impress me, and there are not many — of  _ any  _ species — who can claim that.”

“Impressing you has never been a goal of mine, Dukat.”

“Then you come by it naturally,” he said, a teasing note in his voice — but when she shrugged off the hand on her arm and moved to the other end of the table, his tone turned serious again, and he followed, allowing no more than a footstep’s space to come between them. “Damar is a capable lieutenant, it’s true: dutiful and unimaginative. It’s  _ you  _ I need as First Officer, able to implement plans as swiftly as that brilliant mind of yours can come up with them.”

Looking down at the maps displayed on the table but not really seeing them, Kira shook her head. “It will cause trouble, and this is too small a ship to invite that.”

But he was implacable. As ever, Dukat, the immovable object. “I said I needed you by my side, Kira.” He reached out, as though to tip up her chin, but Kira jerked away before he could make contact. He got what he wanted, though, her eyes meeting his -- never an advantage it was good to hand him. “And I meant that.”

“I figured you wanted me at Tactics, I didn’t think you meant—“

“I  _ did. _ ”

He could seem so sincere, so earnest, that was the problem. Something about the dramatic lighting in the Klingon ship served to enhance the hypnotic intensity of the gaze that bored into her, utterly unyielding, impossibly blue eyes hooded by the shadows from his brow ridges.

“I was not dissembling, Ner--  _ Kira _ . You and I work well together, not least because, as in any well-assembled team, our strengths and deficiencies are in balance. I need your creativity, your daring, your ability to find opportunity in unusual circumstances. Your temper and impulsivity, no doubt, benefit from a cooler head to bring them equilibrium.” Huffing slightly, she folded her arms over her chest. “We are well-matched, and I intend that anyone who encounters us, friend or foe, have no choice but to recognize that. The best way I can communicate my faith in your abilities is to place you at my right hand.”

Somehow he had insinuated himself close enough that his breath feathered against the skin of her neck, and Kira caught that scent again.  _ ‘Damn pheromones.’ _ She wondered if he was emitting them intentionally or not, and wasn’t sure which option was worse, that it was a reflex or a deliberate manipulation.

She forced it from her awareness, and forced herself, too, to look past the magnetic compulsion of his gaze -- and when she did, she was startled to realize that he was trembling. Perhaps vibrating would have been a better word, for it certainly seemed to come from a place of ardent intensity, not from weakness. What he was saying  _ mattered _ to him, with a fervor that went far deeper than the self-serving artifice she usually assumed infected his every word and deed. Even more than when he had bidden her to find that  _ yes _ , he was incandescent with the desire to convince her.

His fingers flexed; he wanted to reach out for her, to touch her, she could read that in the movement, and yet he kept himself from doing so. But when he spoke, his words carried the full force of that pent-up energy.

“You and I are taking on the stars together, Nerys,” he said, the richness of his voice deepened by conviction, “and we shall make them quake.”

Kira’s cheeks flushed; she disliked the implications -- and yet there was something tantalizing about the notion. Odd, wrong, even abhorrent -- but tantalizing nonetheless.

Her mouth, she realized, was hanging agape, and she clamped her jaw, horrified that he might think she had found his monologue captivating.  _ ‘And of course you didn’t. He just startled you. He’s half a madman, you’ve always known that.’ _

And how mad did that make her, to have thrown her lot in with him?

She dropped her head, and heard him release a slight hiss of disappointment.  _ ‘Well, what in the name of the Prophets was he expecting?’ _ She cleared her throat. “You should tell Damar and whoever else you consider senior staff first,” she said. “If you’re hellbent on doing this, and clearly you are -- Well, just make sure none of them go native in this Klingon ship and decide the best way to gain position is by murdering me.”

She was only half-joking, but it released some tension from them both, as she had intended. “You have no need to fear on that concern,” Dukat said. “These men were willing to follow me into obscurity, exile, or death. They will obey.”

“I still expect they’ll appreciate being told before you make it known to the rest of the crew.”

He nodded. “You are likely right. I’ll call them to my ready room to explain how things are going to be.”

With a swiftness that gave away more of her uneasiness than she would have preferred to communicate, Kira made for the door. “I’ll head back to the bridge and get us pointed towards Soukara.”

“Oh, and, Kira--” 

The damned man always had to have the last word. Kira didn’t pause until her hand hit the doorframe and the door slid open, and only then did she turn back towards him.

“I’m afraid I’m out of spring wine,” Dukat called after her, “but I do hope you’ll join me for dinner nonetheless.”

She arched an eyebrow, and not only in skepticism regarding the culinary efforts of Klingon replicators. “Is it  _ also  _ Cardassian tradition for captains of vessels to feast their first officers, along with foreign dignitaries?”

That thin-lipped smile answered her, and a light in his eyes that, though Kira would hardly admit it aloud even under the most refined of tortures, sent a discomfiting spark straight through her. “On this ship, it will be.”

She was halfway across the bridge and midway through issuing instructions for their heading before another perturbing thought occurred to her.  _ ‘First Officer or no, he’d damn well better not be expecting me to call him “sir”.’ _


	4. Refuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Playing pirate takes an unsettling turn when Dukat and Kira drop stolen supplies off at a Cardassian refugee camp.

Kira hadn’t counted on just how unused she had become to speaking -- and hearing -- Kardasi on a regular basis.  _ ‘Less than five years since the Occupation, and the Federation translators have already let my skills rust.’  _ What fluency she’d learned in earlier years had deteriorated, and trying to keep up with the crew at their normal conversational speed was giving her a headache. She’d be damned if she’d let the Cardassians see that weakness, though, keeping her instructions short and to the point.

Fortunately, no one seemed to find her taciturn disposition odd. She knew the Cardassians could carouse plenty in their free time, but on-duty, it was all business.

Yet, strangely, Kira found herself missing idle chatter.  _ ‘Something else from the Federation that’s rubbed off on me.’  _ Silence never used to bother her. Once, she would have sworn she preferred it, and she usually enjoyed the opportunity for reflection that it afforded her. Now, though…  _ ‘There is such a thing as having too much time alone with your thoughts.’ _ And considering how much she had been letting impulse rule her lately, being left alone with her thoughts was far from comfortable.

But if she wanted conversation, there was, aggravatingly, only one place to go for it. She could give orders in Kardasi, but casual conversation strained her capability. Few of the Cardassians had any Bajoran at all. Damar was proficient, but the only one with real fluency was, of course, Dukat.

_ ‘Hardly the same as gossiping with Dax or going over reports with Odo.’  _ But it was, at least, conversation enough to keep her from going mad in isolation.

“Are you  _ seriously _ comparing Bajorans to Terran barbarians from two thousand years ago?”

When she didn’t want to throw things at his head, at least.

“More like twenty-five hundred years, and I was merely pointing out,” Dukat said, with that oh-so-patient tone that had a nigh-unparalleled ability to aggravate Kira, “that history often casts a different light on matters of conquest and rebellion.”

They were in the captain’s quarters, above the bridge, as Dukat had not relented in his insistence that he feast his first officer as often as their respective duties allowed. The bird-of-prey sat cloaked nearby the Soukaran outpost, which had some stationary defenses, but no fighter vehicles that they had been able to detect -- not at the moment, at least. If their calculations were correct and the captured Klingon information held true, then a supply ship should be coming through within six hours. So, they waited, and Kira found herself shouting at Dukat over the remnants of what ration-like food they’d been able to coax out of the Klingon replicator.

“History can do what it likes,” Kira snapped. “Those who live through it tend to feel differently.”

“When Rome conquered the Gallic tribes,” Dukat went on, as though she had not spoken, “there were many atrocities, to be sure. Slaughter, enslavement, displacement--” His right hand made a vague circling gesture in front of his chest, easily dismissing the war crimes. “And so forth.  _ But _ , the Romans also brought order and civilization with them. Roads, architecture, the written word. Within generations, there were no more stalwart supporters of the Empire than those once-wild people.”

“And what did they lose?” Kira asked. “What of their own traditions, their religion, their art?”

“All would have faded or changed in time anyway,” Dukat said, “as all traditions do. Centuries later, the peoples of those conquered lands were themselves considered the most fearsome and invulnerable fighting force on the continent -- and perhaps they would not have been, without Rome’s influence early on. But Rome, itself, fell, as do so many empires.”

“As might Cardassia.” 

Dukat made a low noise, almost a growl, though Kira sensed it was not focused at her. “Once, I would have argued that point  _ most _ strenuously,” he said, “but these days…” His eyes flicked around at their incongruous surroundings, as though that said it all -- and Kira supposed that it did.

Kira settled back in her chair, arms folded over her chest. “How do you even know so much about Terran history, anyway?”

Dukat shrugged. “I made it a point to learn, particularly when Cardassia began having more engagement with the Federation, and thus with the humans. They are a fascinating species -- full of surprises,  _ until _ you learn their history. They become no more predictable, but it does tend to cast their choices into a more comprehensible light.”

Before Kira could respond, Damar’s voice cut through on the comm, with a message simple enough for Kira to understand it perfectly, even in Cardassian. “Klingon supply vessel incoming, sir.”

Dukat and Kira were both on their feet instantly. “Move to intercept,” Dukat commanded. “We’ll be on the bridge momentarily.”

 

*

 

It was almost too easy. The Klingon vessel traveled without an escort and fired only a few feeble shots, nothing to crack the shielding on the bird-of-prey. Its bewildered crew fought admirably, once the ship was boarded, and died to a man rather than surrender. Dukat was grateful for their adherence to honor; he had a feeling that Nerys, though she would likely understand the necessity of killing even enemies that surrendered under such circumstances, would nonetheless be decidedly sulky about doing so. The Klingons’ decision to die in glory spared him an uncomfortable conversation and a day’s moodiness from his feisty First Officer.

And oh, could the woman fight. Though she was probably less than half the weight of any of the Klingons that came at her, she never flinched, but dispatched each with brutal efficiency. There was no flash to her fighting style, to be sure, no elegance of technique.  _ ‘Yet still, a kind of grace.’  _ When a keen mind directed well-toned muscles with such ruthless precision, how could that fail to be beautiful?

The crew fell to spoils, looting the Klingon bodies and bunks for anything useful or valuable, while the Captain and his First Officer took upon themselves the duty of evaluating the cargo hold. Kira found the manifest, and here, the translator incompatibilities favored her rather than Dukat -- she read Klingon far better than he did, and so it was Kira who paced the aisle, mouthing words aloud to herself as she matched crates to their entries on the padd.

The first few, she apparently deemed uninteresting, for after opening them briefly, she closed them without a word to Dukat. Then, halfway down the first row, her brown eyes widened. She gave her head a little shake, as though trying to confirm she had read the manifest correctly -- then she tossed it aside and wrenched the nearest crate open.

“These are…” Her lips spread in a wide grin. “Dukat, we hit the jackpot. These are replicator parts. Not up to Federation or Cardassian standards, but--”

Dukat came to stand behind her, looking over her shoulder at the contents of the crate. “Neither are the ones on the bird-of-prey.” The Klingons still preferred their food fresh --  _ hunted _ , if possible, and so their replicators produced little better than rations. Still -- the parts themselves had immense value.

Kira grabbed the manifest again and kept scrolling. “The next row over should have water purification systems… survival gear… At least three crates of cold-weather clothing… Everything you’d need to occupy a territory without much in the way of infrastructure.”

“Or where you’d destroyed said infrastructure during the invasion,” Dukat growled.

“Or…” Kira blinked a few times. Her voice had gotten softer. “Or that you’d need to survive if displaced from your home…” She turned her deep brown eyes up to him. “Are there refugees on Soukara?”

“There are.” Dukat had to laugh. “Some pirates we are! Our first treasure, and we’re going to give it away rather than profiting from it.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s a Terran myth to fit to that situation, too,” Kira said, turning her attention back to the manifest.

 

*

 

Finding the refugees on Soukara was simple enough, but contacting them without drawing unwanted attention was a bit more of a trick. In the end, Dukat decided to have Damar and a few others beam down first, rather than attempting any subspace communications that might be intercepted. The colony’s leaders were surprised at the news of such unlooked-for bounty, and some were downright skeptical, but in short order, they had cleared a space in the center of their improvised village for the goods to be beamed down from the freighter.

Once they had verified that the crates contained what Damar had claimed, the refugees’ attitude changed considerably. Dukat went down then, to meet with the camp’s leader -- a former governor from Cardassia Minor, it seemed -- and was most gratified at the adulation he received. They were still Cardassians, of course, so there was no fawning or scraping in their gratitude, and Dukat was glad to see it, glad that his people could remain proud even in sudden poverty. But nor were they sparing with their praise, and word soon got out as to the identity of their benefactor. These people either hadn't heard of Gul Dukat's disgrace and downfall, or else they were willing to overlook it in light of the bounty he had brought them. Soon it was not only the former governor looking to speak with him, but a dozen others eager to present themselves -- even more eager to assure him that they had been very important back on Cardassia Minor, citizens of prominence and consequence.

Ridiculous, of course; if they had been worth the noticing, Dukat would already have known their names, but he took time with each nonetheless. Whoever they had or hadn’t been on Cardassia Minor, now they could be, perhaps, the start of Cardassia’s rebirth -- and of his own rewritten legend.

_ ‘A new chapter in my history begins here,’ _ he thought.  _ ‘No longer Dukat the disgraced and defrocked. No, now it can be Dukat the redeemed, the vindicated, the savior.’ _

He quite liked the sound of that.

And he  _ had _ to think of it like that, had to imagine a better future, for himself as well as his people. The reality of the present was too depressing, on both counts. Oh, he did his best to cut a dashing figure as he moved through the refugee crowd, acting as though this were all some grand lark he had chosen to engage in, not a result of his demotion and the cowardice of the Detapa Council. And he couldn’t let himself look too hard at his surroundings or those he encountered. The cobbled-together tents and lean-tos were bad enough; the haunted eyes and hollow cheeks of the Cardassians, so much worse. 

He hated seeing Cardassians in dirty clothes, even as he admired how proudly they wore them, refusing to bow their heads in shame. But there was nothing to admire about hungry children, far too skinny -- except perhaps their parents, who were clearly depriving themselves in order to keep the bodies and souls of the young together. No one would admit how dire the situation was, but Dukat could tell. Too many of the adults bore ridges that had gone quite pale, nearly white at the tips, a clear sign of malnutrition, and their hair was thin and dull, having lost its glossy sheen.

Dukat did not want to see these things, did not want to notice them, did not want to admit how low his people had fallen. He did not want to see, but could not un-see, and knew he would not forget.

_ ‘The Klingons will pay. As much blood as I can spill will hardly be enough to recompense this crime.’ _

With such thoughts crowding his mind, it was quite some time before he registered the absence of his red-headed First Officer amid the crowd of black and grey.

 

*

 

Kira opened every crate before sending it down, checking for any stray items that it might be better to keep aboard the bird-of-prey: weapons, for the most part, but she also took a few replicator parts, in case they needed to make repairs during their strange sojourn.

She knew Dukat probably expected her to have gone down to the planet. He had given his other officers explicit orders: Gherem was on the bridge of the freighter, monitoring from there, and Oldom and a few others were on the cloaked bird-of-prey, keeping an eye out lest any Klingon vessels notice them and take an interest. But he hadn’t barked anything in particular at Kira, and so she had simply… not beamed down.

_ ‘A Cardassian refugee camp…’ _ It spawned mixed emotions, to be sure, and even if it had been her idea to come here, she wasn’t sure she actually wanted to  _ see _ it.  _ ‘Or meet unknown Cardassians, for that matter.’ _ Dukat’s crew was becoming used to her, but they had little choice in the matter. Cardassians who didn’t know her…

Well. She knew what sort of attitude to expect from them.

The crates were so much easier to deal with.

The motions were so familiar -- so similar to some of her duties on Deep Space Nine. Check the manifest, match the packing number, open the box, verify, mark, scroll, repeat. Easy, thoughtless work. So familiar -- and yet so strange. The pale orange glow that surrounded her reminded her every second of where she was, and when she set aside goods to take back to the bird-of-prey, she remembered what she was preparing for. That, too, was familiar, but far older than the muscle memory that had her checking boxes with such efficiency. It wasn’t Major Kira of the Bajoran militia who remembered how to plan like that, but Kira Nerys of the Bajoran Resistance.

Balance, that was what you had to have, to survive. You couldn’t take too much with you; it would only slow you down. But you also never knew what you might need, where you might be in a week’s time. Having food one day didn’t mean you’d have it the next. Your body had different needs sleeping in a cave than sleeping in an open field. An injury or illness could turn from minor to life-threatening with breathtaking speed. There was so much you could never plan for -- so you learned swift judgment: what was worth having on-hand, and what was expendable.

“Kira.”

She had been so deep in her memories that Dukat’s voice took her by surprise -- and for a moment, she almost reacted according to her old instincts, not her new reality. “Dukat,” she acknowledged with a curt nod.

“I thought you would have beamed down long ago to help with the unloading.”

Kira sucked in a breath. “Someone has to coordinate the transport of the goods from up here.”

Dukat frowned, strolling closer to her. “Someone  _ else _ could see to that mundane task.” 

_'Should've known that excuse wouldn't work.'_ Kira shrugged. “No one else reads Klingon as well as I do.”

“At this point the minutiae of the manifest has lost relevance. It isn’t as though we’re issuing receipts to the refugees.” Kira snorted, but did not otherwise respond. Dukat sighed, tipping his head forward with an expression of irritation. “Anyone else could open the crates and see what’s in them. It is disappointing to see you slipping back into administrative habits.”

“That’s not what--” Kira jabbed at the padd in her hand harder than was necessary.

Dukat reached out and took it from her, tossing it aside. “Then what?” he asked, voice hard and demanding. She did not respond immediately, but settled her hands on her hips, prompting him to add, “ _ Kira _ ,” in a warning tone.

Her jaw worked a moment, and she had to wet her lips with her tongue before she could speak. “Those people don’t want to see me.” She gestured vaguely at her cuff, lest he mistake her meaning.

With an almost sub-vocal growl, Dukat seized her by the arm and steered her towards the transport pads. “I had not figured you for that sort of cowardice.”

“It’s not cowardice!” Kira objected. “I just don’t want to cause--”

“Cause trouble, yes, I’m sure you don't. When has that  _ ever _ been your aim?” Kira scowled, as much annoyed because he had a point as because of his manhandling. “This was your victory, too, Kira. The plot to capture this freighter was your idea. You deserve a chance to see the good your work has done -- and to accept your share of the accolades.”

Somehow Kira suspected that accolades were not what would be forthcoming for a Bajoran in a Cardassian refugee camp. “Dukat, I have no intention of--”

“Are you defying your commanding officer?”

_ ‘Well, it didn’t take long for  _ _ that _ _ to become a problem,’ _ Kira thought, already regretting allowing him to bestow the position on her. “I am questioning your judgment,” she shot back, “which is the duty of a First Officer.” She waved her free hand around at the empty cargo bay. “And I’m not doing it in front of anyone else.”

Dukat slapped the combadge on his uniform and snarled, in Kardasi, “Gherem, get in here.” Switching back to Bajoran and still gripping Kira’s arm, he continued, “Now you will be.” 

_ ‘Prophets give me strength.’  _ Kira’s head fell back in exasperation. “Unless he took a quick learning course in Bajoran in the past three hours, Gherem doesn’t understand a word I say, so—“

He made a sharp gesture with his left hand. “Your objection has been noted and is overruled. You will accompany me to the surface.”

Kira dug in her heels, quite literally — though she knew if Dukat were intent on dragging her to a transport pad, he certainly had the strength to do so. “Would you even listen long enough for me to explain  _ why  _ sending me down there is a mistake? They don’t want to thank a Bajoran for their deliverance, Dukat! They’ll assume I came to gloat, or they’ll assume--” 

But she bit down hard on that thought. A young Bajoran woman standing at the side of one of their illustrious guls, acting as a helpmeet -- oh, yes, she knew precisely what the Cardassians would make of  _ that _ .

“Not long ago,” Dukat countered, “you allowed the possibility that Bajor and Cardassia could become  _ friends _ . I imagine that outcome will be achieved considerably faster should the Cardassians occasionally  _ see _ a Bajoran in a positive light.”

Kira snorted. “That cannot possibly be your real reason for sending me.”

Dukat hissed slightly, clearly irritated that his appeal had been unconvincing. “I should not need to supply an explanation.”

“And if you’d kept Damar as your second-in-command, you’d never have to.”

“Cardassians have the appropriate respect for—“

“Spare me.” Kira jerked her arm free of his grip. “You picked a Bajoran; you knew what you were getting.”

Another hiss. His lips were pressed thin, and he paid no more attention to Gherem when the junior officer entered the cargo bay than to wave him towards the transporter controls without a word. Gherem, of course, obeyed without question.

“I need you down there,” Dukat growled — and Kira did not miss that he had continued to speak in Bajoran, despite Gherem’s presence, “because my officers are not use to dealing with refugees.” Kira’s eyebrows rose pointedly. “With  _ Cardassian  _ refugees,” Dukat allowed. “It’s unsettling them, and I’m not certain they can handle the situation with…” His fingers extended and wavered slightly in front of his chest; Kira wasn’t sure if that motion was part of the Cardassian gestural language or just a tic peculiar to Dukat, when he was searching for a word. “With the appropriate delicacy,” he finished. “They need guidance.”

Kira stared at him a long moment, reading the meaning behind his words.  _ ‘His officers aren’t used to dealing with refugees, his officers need help, his officers are unsettled. He means  _ _ he’s _ _ unsettled,  _ _ he _ _ doesn’t know what to do, and of course the arrogant ass can’t just admit that, but for whatever reason he thinks he’ll feel better about it if I’m down there on the planet.’ _

Reasoning that if Dukat was determined to get her onto the planet, he would not be above tossing her into an open crate and transporting her down that way, Kira chose the path of less resistance and greater dignity. “Fine,” she said. “But I still think it’s a bad idea.”

“Your stubbornness is almost a comfort in its steadiness,” Dukat quipped, stepping up onto the transport pad and making an impatient gesture for her to join him. “Gherem, beam us down.”

 

*

 

The reaction Kira got from the Cardassians on Soukara was decidedly mixed. Many, in the haunted glaze that Kira had seen on so many refugees over the years, barely seemed to notice who was handing them supplies. She saw confused expressions on other grey faces, eyes darting between her and Dukat’s staff. A few scornful glances, to be sure, a few who refused to take anything from her hands, pointedly turning to Damar or Kurvot instead. A few muttered words in Kardasi that required no translator.

But there was gratitude, too, at least in some of them, once the initial perplexity passed. One child, with her hair in tangled triple plaits down her back, impulsively hugged Kira’s leg, until her mother snatched her away, and an older Cardassian patted her hand in a paternal fashion, putting her in mind of Tekeny Ghemor.

And then there was Dukat, playing a role, as ever. Kira would not have thought this the time for political glad-handing, but the Cardassians seemed to enjoy it. Those he spoke to seemed reassured by his arrogance, not put-off by it.  _ ‘Perhaps for them,’ _ she thought,  _ ‘it’s a bit like seeing a renegade Vedek was for us. A sign that we weren’t alone, weren’t forgotten, and that someone was willing to be brave on our behalf. A bit of hope, that life could go back to normal someday, even after all we’d endured.’ _

Bajor had never been the same, though, had never gone back to the way it had been before the Occupation.  _ ‘Of course, we had three generations between us and normalcy. Hardly anyone who survived the Occupation still remembers Bajor before.’  _ How the Cardassians fared might likewise depend on how long the Klingons kept them dispossessed.

The hot white sun dipped below the horizon, the sweltering afternoon gave way to a purple-tinged evening that was still hot, but not entirely unpleasant. A breeze began to stir the thick air, and as the refugees prepared their supper, inviting Dukat’s crew to join them, sounds of laughter mingled with the soft noise of the rustling trees.

“You should let them stay a while longer,” Kira said, leaning against one of the emptied crates. Dukat rolled his head towards her with a questioning tilt. “Your crew. A bit of shore leave would be good for morale, with all they’ve been through lately. And good for them, too,” she added, jerking her head towards the civilians. “Let them hear that someone is fighting for them. Let your men tell the tale of besting the Klingons in battle.” Her lips pulled up slightly. “Let them embellish it so it sounds grand and heroic, not desperate.”

“The time will cost us,” Dukat pointed out, though it was in what she was coming to recognize as his ‘reasonable dissent’ voice, a tone he used to interrogate a plan but not necessarily naysay it. “We’ll have to burn harder to reach the Amleth system in time to intercept any Klingons there.”

“I know,” Kira said. “And leaving the bird-of-prey in orbit might draw attention to us. But look at them.” A Cardassian woman with a ragged blue shawl wrapped around her shoulders had sidled up alongside of Damar. From the spark in her eyes and the rapidity of her speech, Kira had to assume she was flirting, by Cardassian standards. “When do you think these people last relaxed enough to enjoy themselves at all? When do you think they last felt any shred of hope? Before they left Cardassia Minor, I’d wager.”

“And is a little hope, a little enjoyment, worth so much?”

She glanced sideways at him. Twilight’s shadows cast the ridges on his face into stark relief, his eyes fenced in by the sharp lines on his cheeks and the deep hood of his brow. “Of course it is,” she said, watching for any reaction. Dukat could be so expressive -- but he could also hold his features with that cold, reptilian stillness, when he so chose. “If your people are going to survive what the Klingons are doing to them, they have to have hope. Otherwise… they’ll just get crushed.”

His eyes were far away, looking not so much at the refugees as beyond them. What was he seeing?

Then he swiveled towards her, and his lips pulled back in that enigmatic not-quite-smile. Maddening expression, thick with implications, yet revealing so little. "Then I bow to your wisdom, Kira." And he strolled off to inform his men of the decision, leaving Kira behind to wonder what in all the stars had compelled her to suggest a course of action that meant  _she_ would have to stay longer, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The next chapter should take less time -- it and this one were initially all one chapter until I realized it had grown monstrous in size and decided to split it.
> 
> If you're enjoying my work, check out my website, cassmorriswrites.com! My debut novel came out from DAW Books last month, so if you dig the way I write, you might find it enjoyable!


	5. Jagged Edges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which tempers are lost and truths are approached.

**Chapter Five: Jagged Edges**

It was hardly a feast -- porridge and ration-based stew -- but the spirits of the refugees seemed lifted simply by having the crew around.  _ ‘Perhaps it is as Nerys said,’ _ Dukat mused.  _ ‘A little hope can go a long way.’ _

The former governor, whose name was Aramn, had insisted on seating Dukat at a sort of improvised high table, along with a few other of the would-be important citizens of their unintentional colony. Dukat wasn’t sure whether to consider the conceit a noble determination to uphold standards or a ridiculous farce, considering the situation. Half the tables were barely worth the name, and they were eating under the open air, not far from where the crates had been unloaded.  _ ‘Hardly a banquet hall.’  _ But in the name of rebuilding his reputation, Dukat would play along.

“Your crew really is quite admirable,” Aramn was saying. “Taking on the Klingons -- twice! And capturing a bird-of-prey!” He chuckled. “A good nose-bloodying, that’s what I call it.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes, yes, fine soldiers, all around. And your, ah--” Aramn’s eyes flicked across towards Kira Nerys, who was sitting far at the end of the improvised tables.

She was not  _ quite _ alone -- there were a few Cardassians around her, some of whom were even signaling an interest in talking to her, their gestures and the angles of their shoulders and heads communicating  _ curious, nonthreatening, open _ \-- but the language barrier remained. Kira’s Kardasi was proficient, not conversational, and he doubted any of the Cardassians here could speak Bajoran.

“Your--” Aramn tried again, then, when Dukat did not oblige him by supplying any sort of qualifier, he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I don’t know the proper term of address, I’m afraid.”

Dukat leveled a steady gaze at Aramn, trying to get a read on him. He was flustered, it seemed, by not knowing the protocol at play. The slight hunch to his shoulders read  _ awareness of an awkward subject _ ; he leaned forward in a way that said  _ genuinely interested _ . Dukat read nothing of malice -- though that hardly meant that underhanded motives for asking might not lurk below the surface. He could understand the governor’s curiosity -- particularly if he had left Cardassia Minor  _ after _ the scandal over Ziyal had erupted; knowing Dukat had a half-Bajoran daughter would certainly provoke curiosity over seeing a lovely young Bajoran woman at his side -- but that didn’t mean he had to like it, nor permit impertinent questions about it.

After a long moment, Dukat offered as flat an explanation as he could manage. “Kira Nerys, formerly of Bajor and the Federation outpost now called Deep Space Nine, is currently serving as my First Officer.” Silently, he added,  _ ‘And anything she might be beyond that than that is none of your business.’  _

“Ah.” Aramn displayed a slight release of tension, but no less curiosity. “It must be quite a story, how she came to serve with you.”

“Indeed,” Dukat said, and his right hand moved in a flat gesture:  _ finality _ .

For a moment, Aramn seemed to consider ignoring the gesture and inquiring further, which would have been a grave breach of social niceties. Elim Garak, for example, had never paid attention to that signal in his life, at least not in Dukat’s presence. But Aramn chose discretion, nodding. “Well. None of us are quite where we expected to be, I suppose. Life moves us all in strange ways.”

As conciliatory a phrase as Dukat could hope for. “Certainly no one could have predicted our current conflict with the Klingons,” he said, hoping to spin the conversation onto firmer ground.

“Hrm,” Aramn grumbled in agreement. “Nor the rapidity of their devastation.” He sighed. “Gul Dukat… we have had little news, here in our exile. What can you tell us of the war?” The ghost of a hopeful smile dared to creep onto Aramn’s face. “Surely your presence here is a good sign?”

Dukat took a moment, deciding how to respond. He could lie, of course; he could tell the story as it  _ should  _ be, as it would have been had the Detapa Council listened to him and taken the decisive action that could have turned the tide.  _ ‘But what purpose would that serve? To give this man and his people false hope? No. Better they face the reality of our situation, and let the cowardice of the Detapa Council fuel their rage as it has stoked mine.’ _

So he shook his head. “If only that were so, Governor Aramn. I’m afraid the official government -- the  _ current _ official government,” he amended, pointedly, “has decided upon a course of seeking peace rather than victory.”

“Peace?” Aramn asked, almost laughing. “With the Klingons?” But as soon as the incredulity flared, it faded. “Well. Perhaps that’s for the best.”

“For the best?” It came out half a snarl, and Aramn’s eyes flew wide. “The Detapa Council has rolled over on its belly for these barbarians. They have declined to take advantage of intelligence that could lead to a viable insurgency. In what way can you reason that is for the best?”

Weakness in his arms, a waggle in his head:  _ helpless _ . “The Klingons have us utterly outgunned. We were lucky they were focused on the Federation for so long that they didn’t trouble us, here on the other side of the quadrant, but now?” A heavy sigh. “I can see the advantages to finding some sort of rapprochement.”

“Fortunately for you,” Dukat said, and though his tone was mild, a drawl of disinterest, the angle of his fingers as he gestured at the piles of stolen goods indicated  _ growing annoyance _ , “not everyone sees it that way.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Aramn hurriedly replied, “it’s noble, what you’re doing. Bold. And we are more grateful than I can say. But it’s… it’s a fight you can’t win.” 

“It is one I intend to devote myself to nonetheless,” Dukat said; his voice remained calm, but he could not keep a faint signal of  _ contempt _ out of the set of his shoulders. “And if I am the last Cardassian still standing against the Klingons, so be it.” He pushed back from the table and stood, barely managing to keep his movements controlled and even. His temper was on the verge of getting the better of him, but showing that to these refugees was hardly the most tactful choice. “Forgive me, Governor,” he ground out, “but I’m afraid I have tarried too long. I have a few things to see to before my crew departs.”

 

*

 

Kira, too, had excused herself from the table, having long since run out of the requisite energy to keep up with small-talk in Kardasi. She paced between the rows of emptied crates, wondering how long such a meager feast could go on before Dukat and the others would be ready to return to the bird-of-prey. She had contemplated telling Oldom to beam her back up -- those instructions, she was confident she could manage without mangling the conjugations too badly -- but she suspected Dukat would haul her back down again on general principle. But she was filled with restless energy and unsettled thoughts, and so, she paced.

The Cardassians who had chosen to sit near her during dinner seemed nice enough, for Cardassians -- or, at least, they were the sort whose curiosity had overrun their disdain. None of them had made anything she recognized as disparaging comments, even if their glances did often flick questioningly between Kira and Dukat. Most interestingly, a pair of young women asked questions about the replicator parts which Kira did her best to answer. It turned out they all had some Federation Standard to resort to when Kira’s haphazard Kardasi failed her. From this, she learned that the women had -- like many female Cardassians -- gone into the sciences back at home, and they were eager to dig into the Klingon technology.

She hoped their minds were keen and agile enough to make good use of the stolen goods. It wasn’t enough to be smart: they’d have to be creative, as well.  _ ‘And these are inexperienced refugees.’ _ A strange thought, that living in such exile could be something one was good or bad at, but Kira knew the truth of it: those that didn’t learn to adapt to their new circumstances, and swiftly, would be the ones who didn’t make it. The Bajorans still alive at the end of the Occupation were the ones who had gotten very good at it indeed -- and they would have found use for every scrap of material available to them, not just the obvious technological components. Crates and packing material could be fashioned into shelter, furniture, fuel, even crude weapons, if you were creative enough.  _ ‘Or desperate enough.’ _

Kira came to a halt between two of the stacks with her arms folded, one thumb tapping against her lower lip as she gazed back across the square towards the gathering. She didn’t  _ want _ to pity them. Looking at the displaced mass, their threadbare tents and sparse conditions, she saw an echo of her own people. What Cardassia had done to Bajor, the Klingons had now done to Cardassia. Wasn’t that karmic justice?

But the child who had hugged her leg hadn’t even been alive when the Occupation ended. What had that girl done, to deserve this life?  _ ‘No more than three generations’ worth of Bajoran children.’  _ And the scientists were younger than Kira, women who had just been living their lives on Cardassia Minor. They had benefited from Bajor’s oppression in the oblique way that all of Cardassia had, but did that mean they now deserved to suffer as Bajor had?

It tugged her soul in two different directions, and Kira felt at an utter loss to reconcile the impulses.  _ ‘I wish I knew what the Prophets meant by all of this… by setting me on this path…’ _ She wanted to seclude herself somewhere and meditate on it.

“What are you thinking?”

The low rumble caught her off-guard. Deeply absorbed in her thoughts as she had been, Dukat had managed to get directly behind her. She hadn’t even noticed that he had left the tables.

“I was thinking of a lot of scenes like this one,” she said, “though painted in different colors.”

“Hm. And what is it you’re  _ feeling _ , I wonder?”

His voice had an edge to it, warning Kira that he was likely setting some sort of verbal trap. But when she glanced back at him, his expression did not match the tone. She was used to the predatory prowl, head angled forward, eyes tight and fixed, clenched fists. And she was used to the insouciant ease with which he communicated superiority, chin tilted back to expose the throat, showing no fear of threat, hands held loosely in front of him with linked fingers. This, though, was something else, unfamiliar, and yet-- 

_ ‘No. I  _ _ do _ _ know that look.’ _ Arms still, but the fingers restless. Eyes slightly unfocused, wandering in between blinks, rather than shifting during them in reptilian style. Head held at no particular angle, almost wagging, as though his neck ridges had lost their stiffness. Altogether, a lack of purpose in his pose, alarming in its unstudied and indeliberate nature. A man who had forgotten to choose the right mask for the occasion -- or had lost the strength to keep it up.

She had seen that look on Dozaria, and it communicated sorrow, and vulnerability. He was trying to cover for it with aggression, but Kira could see past that.  _ ‘When,’ _ she wondered,  _ ‘did I learn to read Gul Dukat’s moods so thoroughly?’ _

But he went on. “Is it in your soul, to feel compassion for such as these? Does their weakness compel your tender sympathy? Or is it vindication, to stand over foes who have fallen so very far? Is it  _ pity _ ?” He spat the word with the full venom of Cardassian pride.

“Hey,” she snapped, wondering what had gotten into him over dinner. “ _ You _ were the one who wanted me down here. I was perfectly content up on the freighter, not having any emotions about any refugees.”

She moved to push past him -- though where she intended to go, she wasn’t sure, just that  _ away _ would be preferable -- but he sidestepped directly into her path. “I don’t believe I dismissed you, Kira.”

Another time, he might have been teasing, but Kira knew better. Whatever had set him off-kilter, he had decided that nettling her would somehow set it right. She ought to deny him the pleasure, drop her eyes, lapse into silence. Refusing to snap at the bait was a skill she had learned during the Occupation -- but, like her Kardasi, it seemed to have grown rusty in recent years.

“I don’t know what the hell’s gotten into you, but if you’re looking for a fight, Dukat,  _ fine _ . You know I’m good for it!” A bitter half-laugh escaped her as she spread her arms wide. “Vent your frustrations, and I’ll give as good as I get. But you know damn well it’s not really me you’re mad at.” 

He blinked, twice. Apparently  _ that _ hadn’t been what he had been expecting, and Kira leaned into the advantage his hesitation bestowed.

“You’re angry at the Klingons,” she said swiftly, “as well you should be, and you’re angry at yourself, because you can’t save your people single-handed. The Prophets know I understand  _ that _ frustration.” She drummed her fingers against her hip, briefly weighing the wisdom of her next words. But Prophets take it, wisdom rarely managed to govern her tongue around this man, so why start now? “And deep-down, I think you’re angry because you’re wondering if Cardassia didn’t bring this on itself.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “What is it you’re suggesting? Divine intervention?” His voice dripped with disdain, but the following bark of laughter range false. “Your Prophets punishing us for the Occupation? Cardassians do not indulge in such superstitions.”

Kira shook her head. “ _ I  _ might think that, but I know you never would. No, I’m guessing that your analytical mind has turned back the clock a few decades, starting with the cause of the Occupation.”

“Cardassia was imperiled.”

“Something had to be done.” That, at least, Kira could concede; what would she not do, what had she not  _ done _ for the chance of saving Bajor? “But did it have to be  _ that _ ? What if Cardassia had made different choices, generations ago? Never mind what it would have spared Bajor. What would it have done for  _ you _ ? Would your people have more friends now?” She couldn’t keep a trace of vindictive satisfaction from lacing her tone. “Would there be someone willing to stand between Cardassia and the Klingons? Would the Klingons even have had the opportunity to invade?” Dukat had gone very, very still. A warning, which Kira recognized but chose to ignore, pressing her argument in rapid-fire. “If you never subjugated Bajor, you could never have been thrown out of it. Could your people have built something stronger than a government whose stability depended on that subjugation? No Occupation, no post-Occupation instability, no insurrection, no collapse. And could the Dominion then have manipulated the Klingons into their preemptive attack?” Kira had to pause to catch her breath; she wasn’t as accustomed to delivering monologues as Dukat. 

Dukat took advantage of her brief pause to say, with dangerous deliberation clipping every syllable, “A worthy thought experiment, for philosophers. My concerns are not so ponderous.”

Kira snorted. “No, of course. You would never pontificate, any more than I would look to cause trouble.”

Had she been hoping that the quip would lighten his expression, that she would see the self-deprecating spark in his eyes? But she had pushed him too far— and was inclined to push further.  _ ‘As well be hanged for a hara cat as a kitten.’ _

“You’re right, though,” she went on. “I missed something. I forgot,  _ somehow,  _ to factor your ego into the equation.”

“My ego has nothing to do with—“

“Because how,” Kira rolled over his objection, “could you contemplate all of that without wondering how  _ you  _ might have been different?” He cut her a sharp look. “Who might you have grown to be, born into a different world? Never Prefect of Bajor, never a murderer—“ 

Her breath hitched in her throat; tears were threatening the back of her eyes, and why in the name of—

_ ‘Because you’re wondering, too,’  _ she realized,  _ ‘who you might have been, in such a world, growing up free, never taught to kill, never a murderer or a terrorist yourself. Who you might have had to be, in a Bajor still tied to its d’jarras. You’re wondering if Bajor might have given aid to Cardassia freely, had it been asked rather than ravaged, if our peoples might have been sisters rather than enemies, and what that might have grown into. And dammit, yes, you’re wondering about him. Who  _ _ he _ _ might have been, in a galaxy where Cardassia had never brutalized Bajor.’  _ And another thought, more troubling:  _ ‘You’re wondering if you ever would have known him, and what difference that might have made. What your life would be like without Gul Dukat in it.’ _

Once, that would have been a wish dearly granted, but now…

Now he was staring at her with those cutting blue eyes, as though he had somehow read every one of those unsettling thoughts as it darted across her mind.  _ ‘Damn.’ _

Kira started to push past him again, but again, he countered to block her -- this time in such a way that she backed up against one of the stacks of empty crates. Her heart beat faster. Kira never liked feeling trapped.  _ ‘And that’s all that this is, that’s the only reason,’ _ she told herself.

“What would your remedy be, then, Nerys,” he asked, “for a soul so shattered?” But before she could so much as shake her head, he went on. “But no, you wouldn’t know, would you? Years of piety haven’t fit the jagged edges of yours back together.”

“There is nothing jagged about my--”

“No?” He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear as he taunted, in a whisper, as though sharing some tantalizing secret, “ _ Look where you are.” _

No need to say more than that. If her soul had been at peace, neat and orderly, she never would have torn off on this mad escapade. She wasn’t the half-savage creature she’d been right when the Occupation ended, but she was far from achieving any sort of serenity, no matter how desperately she saw it or how many hours she spent in the temple. He was right, and she hated it.

Dukat pulled back just far enough that she could see his grin -- the grin she so often wanted to punch off of his face. Now, though, she just felt off-center, flustered.  _ How _ had he turned the tables on her so swiftly, when she’d been berating him a moment earlier?

“I’m here because you begged me to join you,” she reminded him, scrambling to regain the conversational upper hand,  “because you said you needed me, and now you would mock me for it?”

“No.” He released a little hissing breath. “Not mockery, Nerys. Only an observation.” The boiling anger had gone out of him, replaced by that alarming intensity of regard that could surface so swiftly. “You and I -- we are neither of us who we once were, and neither of us what we expected to be. Yet here we are. Out in the wilds, estranged from our former loyalties.” One hand came up to the side of her face, the backs of his knuckles grazing the tender skin just beneath her ear. “Together.”

There it was again, that insistence of his that their fates were somehow twined. For so long, she had flatly denied it as just another of his self-aggrandizing delusions. There was nothing between them. There wasn’t, there never had been, and there never could be. So she had always insisted.  _ ‘You gave up the right to that argument, if not when you joined him on this little crusade, then certainly when you agreed to be his First Officer.’ _

And yet, conceding that, Kira wasn’t sure she was prepared for whatever admission would have to come next, any more than she was prepared to deal with the hunger in his eyes, or the hot tingle running down her spine at the sight of it. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue -- an unconscious nervous gesture, and something she didn’t even realize she’d done until she heard Dukat’s low growl of unmistakable arousal.

Arousal? No, no, it had to be something different, she had to have misinterpreted. If she had frustrated him, angered him,  _ that _ she knew how to deal with. It  _ had _ to be that. The frisson vibrating inside her chest could not be a thrill, not some unspoken anticipation of what that growl might presage, not a flutter of exhilaration at how he stood, solid and sure and so presumptuously close to her.

_ ‘Hit him!’  _ part of her screamed.  _ ‘Kick him, anything, get away!’ _ She could do it. He was so close, he’d never see the first strike coming -- and once she got one in, a solid hit between the joints of his armor, that was all she’d need. And yet, she didn’t move. She let Dukat keep her there, pinned against the stacks of crates by his mere presence and the penetrating gaze of his eyes.

 

*

 

He  _ had  _ been looking for a fight, that much was true. In the mounting fury that had blossomed from his conversation with Aram, Dukat had sought out Nerys, knowing he could provoke her into giving him an excuse to vent his temper.  _ ‘And yet, you ever do surprise me, dear Nerys,’  _ he thought, looking down into her tip-tilted eyes. With the expert precision of a huntress, she had flayed open his soul. Without mercy or mitigation, she had made targeted verbal incisions. It was a skillful cruelty that a Cardassian could appreciate.

“So here we are,” he said, “both broken souls, ragged and desperate.” His hand moved down, skimming her bare shoulder. “You are no longer the militia administrator, and I am no longer Prefect of Bajor.” His voice was a little harder when he said that, but it was imperative that she understand. He had shed that skin, along with so many others that no longer served him. Whatever he was now, whatever he was becoming, that was different — and perhaps he was willing to let her have the shaping of it. “We are no longer enemies, Nerys.”

She seemed to consider that a moment, still looking up at him, and  _ oh _ , how bewitching those eyes were. Sparking with fire or strikingly soulful, Dukat could never get his fill of their sable depths.

Her voice held a troubled note when she said, “I don’t know what that makes us, then.”

Dukat checked an instinct to crow victory over the tacit admission in her statement. Instead, he allowed himself a slow and hopefully charming grin. “The Cardassian pirate-lord and the Bajoran renegade?”

“That sounds like a bad holo-novel.” Her retort lacked its usual decisive snap. He was getting to her — and a damned good thing he was, or else the power she seemed to have over him would put him at a complete disadvantage.

“Still,” he said, “I rather like the sound of it. Quite dashing, don’t you think?” Kira rolled her eyes, but he forestalled any protestation with a soft gesture, his fingers near her ear, as though brushing back a lock of hair. He didn’t actually touch her, but he could feel the warmth of her skin, and his nearness was enough to captivate her attention again. He kept his voice low and liquid, all the better to roll through the cadence of the Bajoran language. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I am… reconsidering much of how I had framed my view of the universe. But I do know this. A universe where you and I never crossed paths would be a universe less worth living in.”

Her little tongue flicked out to moisten her deep pink lips again, sending another shot of pure lust straight through him. Stars, he wanted her — and she wanted him, too, even if she still wasn’t ready to admit it. He inhaled deeply, luxuriating in the scent of her, the spice and what he’d decided had to be some jungle flower, lush and heady. It was taking thorough mastery of his self-control not to press her back against those crates, lift her by the hips, and show her just how glorious their alliance could truly be. How would she respond? Eagerly, wrapping her legs around his waist, letting passion overcome her?

But no — he could still read too much hesitation in the flutter of her eyelashes.  _ ‘Press her now, and you might lose her.’ _ A military strategist knew when an immediate advance might cost more than it gained.

Painful though it was -- and stars, it ached in every part of him -- Dukat stepped away from her.

Did a flicker of disappointment flash over her face, instantly there and gone, or was it his optimistic imagination?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you're enjoying my style, check out my website at cassmorriswrites.com. I've got a fantasy novel out, available in hardcover, ebook, and audio, & other excitement available elsewhere on the internet!


	6. Evaluating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which plans are made, and more than one displaced individual figures out how to move forward on strange new footing.

_‘We are no longer enemies.’_

_‘I don’t know what that makes us, then.’_

Kira had been worrying over those words ever since they had left Soukara. In truth, it was something she’d been trying to figure out ever since they had left _Dozaria_. For so long, he had been so easy to categorize: a nuisance at best, a nemesis at worst. Somewhere between gravesites, sand spines, and lost daughters, that had begun to change. What it had changed into…

Her teeth clenched. She’d been staring at the star charts in front of her for fifteen minutes but didn’t feel like she had actually seen them at all. She was supposed to be coming up with a plan, she was supposed to be _good_ at that, but her thoughts refused to focus.

Aggravating enough to have admitted, out loud, that there _was_ an ‘us’, in any fashion, that they had some kind of dynamic that warranted defining. Worse to have no idea what words to put to it.

Worst of all, to suspect which words were trying to assert themselves.

 _‘Ridiculous.’_ She stomped down hard on the thought, shook her head a bit, and went back to the star charts. The computer had been running calculations based on the target priorities and status reports from its own logs, predicting where and when Klingon ships were likely to arrive for attacks -- and when they might be in vulnerable positions. Kira took a deep breath, trying to settle her mind into something like a meditative state

“You told me that terrorists don’t get to be heroes, but I must say, Kira, I do feel rather heroic.”

She straightened, grateful Dukat had chosen to announce his arrival rather than sneaking up on her. “Captain on the bridge,” she announced, redundantly, but the formality gave her something solid to cling to.

Dukat had an amused expression as he took his seat. A casual sprawl, today; he was feeling confident. _‘Impressive he can manage to spread out like that, considering how tight Cardassian uniform pants are.’_ Kira wanted to slap herself the minute the thought flickered into existence. _‘You did_ _not_ _just--’_

Fortunately, Dukat was too wrapped up in self-congratulation to notice the color that had surged to her cheeks, or else he surely would have questioned its cause. Evidently he had recovered from whatever emotional crisis had seized him back on Soukara. No doubt he had spent the day since their departure weaving a new story for himself, one that erased any disagreeable inconsistencies with the version of himself he was choosing to put forward at the moment, that of the roguish pirate captain, unflappable and victorious.

 _‘Arrogant bastard,’_ Kira thought, but another word presented itself, too: adaptable. Whatever the galaxy threw at him, Dukat never stayed down for long. The man had a remarkable talent for re-framing his mind to take the best advantage of new circumstances, making an opportunity out of every setback. It was, almost, admirable.

“So!” he said brightly. “What shall our next adventure be?”

With a few flicks of her fingers, Kira sent the star charts she had been examining up on a viewscreen, along with the computer’s calculations. “The Klingons intend to hit a convoy as it leaves Amleth Prime. They’ll be waiting, cloaked, just outside the nebula.”

“They?” Dukat inquired.

“Two birds-of-prey. One of them, the _Qapchu'_ , is coming from the other side of the nebula, near Tzenkethi space, but the other, the _Jul’pach_ , is close to us, heading out of Ventani. If we burn hard, I think we can intercept them.”

“Take them out, and then assume their place at the nebula ambush,” Dukat said, nodding. “Then, eliminate the _Qapchu’_ before it can attack the Cardassian convoy.”

“The only hitch,” Kira said, “will be getting close enough to the _Qapchu’_ to strike without them realizing we’re not the ship they’re expecting to join them.”

“We could simply inform them that the _Hov’taj_ has taken the place of the _Jul’pach_ ,” Dukat said, his lips twisting wryly, “except that as soon as we establish communications, even the thickest of Klingons will realize something is amiss.”

Kira shrugged. “So we stick to audio transmissions only. Tell them our optronic relays are fused, or something.”

“And if they find that suspicious, I suppose it need only delay them long enough for us to get within range.”

“Sir!” The new voice belonged to Dukat’s communications officer, Kurvot. “I think I can adjust the--”

He had begun in Kardasi, but paused, then started again in a muddled argot of Kardasi, Bajoran, and Federation Standard. He made the shift without so much as a glance at Kira, but her cheeks flushed anyway. She couldn’t tell if he was showing her a kindness or a condescension. She had been speaking as much in Kardasi as she could manage, knowing the bridge crew was listening to the conversation, but she’d still had to lean on some Federation vocabulary to fill in the gaps. _‘We have_ _got_ _to do something about the translator on this damn ship.’_

At least she could follow the thread of Kurvot’s suggestion this way, even if the co-mingled grammar was all over the place. “I think I can be adjusting a holofilter to the system of communications belonging to this ship, and then it could be projecting images of a Klingon crew, in the place of our own.” He paused again, though this time it seemed to be due to his own discomfort. “I am less than assured that I could be completing this transformation in the time allotted before we reach Amleth Prime, but I can attempt the effort.”

“Do so,” Dukat said. “It will be useful at whatever point you can get it operational. Gherem, set a course to intercept the _Jul’pach_. Oldom, make sure that your engineers are taking care of those modifications we discussed. Kira--” He stood, gesturing towards the door to her office. “With me. Let’s hammer out some battle plans. I’d like to run a few drills if we have enough time.”

 

*

 

Kira was stiff and precise again, but he had expected that. He had unnerved her, down on Soukara, and so she would retreat into rigidity while she wrestled with herself. But as they discussed tactics for ambushing the ambushers, she began to -- not relax, precisely. That implied far more ease than befit keen eyes, quick mind, and lithe limbs, all poised for action. But she was more natural, more _herself_ , in Dukat’s estimation, reacting without interposing layers of self-chastisement and Federation-imposed ethical consideration between herself and her words and actions.

“We’re not going to get many more chances for total surprise,” she said, drumming her fingers against a console. “As soon as the Klingons figure out they’ve got a mole bird-of-prey flapping about, they’ll be wary of unexpected company.”

Dukat answered her with a sharp nod. “So we strike as many as we can, as quickly as we can, before word spreads.” His lips quirked slightly. “Though we have bought ourselves a bit of time by annihilating the crews of both ships so far.”

Kira took a steadying breath, seeming to weigh her next words. “We should do that again, if we can. Give the Klingons as few opportunities to spread the word as we can manage.”

“You amaze me, Kira.” His eyes crinkled in amusement. “I would have expected some moralizing about giving them a fair chance to surrender.”

“You wanted the Bajoran terrorist,” she said. Her voice was low, faraway, dangerous. Enthralling. “Not the Federation diplomat.”

“Indeed I did.” He inclined his head, an acknowledgement of the difficulty of this shift she was making, even if it was, in his opinion, a shift back to her true, glorious self. “It’s a pity we can’t keep using your transporter trick to capture these ships, rather than destroying them, but--” He made an open-handed, sweeping gesture: _frustrated acquiescence_. “We don’t have the crew to staff them.”

“Not yet.” Kira’s voice still had that somber quality. “Others might join you, eventually. If you live long enough.” She gazed past him, he assumed, back into her days with the Resistance. “Light a spark enough times, and sooner or later, the kindling will take flame.”

“You mean,” he said in a slow drawl, “that my reluctant brethren may also find their ‘yes’?”

“We can hope.”

“Hm.” He rapped his knuckles against the desk. “I’m afraid the friends we met on Soukara didn’t give me much reason to believe in that.” He had given too much away with that admission, but the look in her eyes when her attention snapped over to him was almost worth it. Sympathy, he thought, one shattered soul to another. His shoulders moved in a rueful shrug. “If they will not find their courage, I shall simply have to summon enough for all of them.”

Her expression of astonishment melted into a small, private smile. “If anyone can take on the confidence of an entire empire’s worth of people, Dukat, it would be you.”

He grinned, sidling next to her. “Was that a compliment, Nerys?”

“I didn’t say _that_ ,” she answered, her head wagging. “I just don’t know many men whose egos operate on the galactic scale.”

He passed behind her, to reach another of the battle schematics. The room was wide open behind him, but he still slipped close enough to her to feel the heat of her body. Her head fell to one side as he passed. From a Cardassian woman, that would have been an open invitation, but Dukat restrained the instinct to take an exploratory nibble of her soft pink skin. He even managed not to rest a hand at the small of her back, though it would have felt so natural, so _right_ to do so. Instead, he simply dropped his head over her shoulder and murmured, “No. I don’t expect you _would_.”

 

*

 

Deep Space Nine was a station full of whispers -- or so it seemed to Tora Ziyal.

Oh, it was a peasant enough place in most regards, if too chilly. So bustling, so busy, so bright and cheery. Ziyal was a patient observer, and she had already learned much in the few days since Lieutenant Dax had delivered her safely to the station. She saw the Starfleet officers, so regimented yet so varied, heard their news and gossip. She saw the Bajorans, straight-spined with pride, heard their prayers. She saw the customers at Quark’s bar, heard their cries of victory or defeat at the dabo table, heard the propositions they made to each other.

She saw the eyes that landed on her, wherever she went, sharply skeptical, keenly appraising. And these, the words that followed her everywhere -- _‘Gul Dukat’s daughter.’_

It was a bitter irony. On Cardassia, no one had wanted to acknowledge her as such. On Deep Space Nine, it was her only definition.

Ziyal refused to hide in her quarters, but it still stung, to sit alone in the Replimat with a haze of whispers around her. _‘If only Father were here…’_ she thought, stirring her zabu stew moodily. Not that her father’s presence would really help, considering he was the source of her unlooked-for reputation, but at least then she’d have him to talk to, like she had on Cardassia and on the _Groumall_ . _‘Or if Nerys had come back with me. Or if they’d only let me stay!’_

It had made sense, at the time. The life Nerys and her father had thrown themselves into wasn’t one they wanted for Ziyal. But didn't they know how hard it would be for her, alone on this station, wondering if they were alive or dead, if they would ever return? And they hadn't prepared her for the whispers. On Cardassia, everyone had sneered outright, and that was somehow easier to bear. Her father lifted his chin, pointedly ignoring his detractors, and so had Ziyal. She had never had to question the Cardassians' disdain, but here, she had no idea what the whispers augured: suspicion, or curiosity, or loathing?

It had made sense, at the time, but now Ziyal was questioning the wisdom of the choice.

The chair across from her scraped the floor, and a second tray joined hers on the table. Ziyal looked up to find herself met with a pair of bright blue eyes set in an uncommonly pretty face. “Lieutenant Dax!” she exclaimed.

“Please,” Dax said, “no Lieutenant. You’re not Starfleet, and I’m not on duty. It’s Jadzia. Or Dax, whichever you prefer.” Smiling, she gestured at the table. “Mind if I join you?”

“N-No, of course I don’t,” Ziyal said, casting her eyes about the Replimat. There were the eyes, there were the whispers, as expected. “But are you sure you--”

Jadzia was already in her seat, tucking into some sort of steamed dumpling. “These are delicious,” she said. “You should try one. Although--” She cocked her head thoughtfully. “Cardassians don’t have a lot of dough-based foods, do they? So it might not be to your taste.”

“Cardassians don’t, no,” Ziyal said, smiling a bit, “but only half of my taste buds are Cardassian, so I’m willing to branch out.”

Jadzia nudged her plate towards Ziyal, waving her fork over it in a “go on” gesture. With delicate precision, Ziyal scooped one of the pale yellow dumplings up and popped it into her mouth. She had expected something sweet, but instead, the dough melted into a savory blend of herbs. Strange -- but not unpleasant.

“You see?” Jadzia said, reaching for her glass. “Good, right?”

“It is, thank you.” She could feel color coming to her cheeks -- that wretched blush, one of the many things that gave her away as half-caste. Cardassians didn’t blush, but Ziyal’s pale grey skin was all too prone to taking on a rosy glow. “Jadzia, you don’t -- you don’t have to do this, you know.”

“Do what?”

Ziyal gave her a slightly reproachful look. “I’m not a child. I don’t need company out of pity.”

“Good! Because that’s not what you’re getting.”

Jadzia exuded such warmth, and Ziyal wanted so badly to believe in her candor. “I just -- Everyone avoids me because of my father. He was your enemy, too, wasn’t he?”

Jadzia’s mouth made a thoughtful moue, and then she shrugged. “I was in Starfleet at the very end of the Federation’s war with Cardassia, but I was never directly involved. _And_ I knew some Cardassians long before the wars got started, so I’ve no reason to dislike them on principle.” She stabbed at another dumpling, leaning forward to say, in an almost conspiratorial tone, “One of the advantages of the Trill lifespan: living long enough to see many enemies become friends.”

 _‘And friends become enemies, no doubt,’_ Ziyal couldn’t help but think.

“As for your father… Gul Dukat might not be my favorite person in the Alpha Quadrant, but I wouldn’t hold that against _you_ , in any case.” Her eyes crinkled somewhat mischievously. “I’ve never let anyone else’s attitude determine who I decide to spend time with. You seem interesting, Ziyal. And I like interesting people.”

“I don’t know about interesting,” Ziyal said, “unless you’re looking for tales of growing up in a labor camp.”

“No,” Jadzia said, more softly. The teasing manner dropped away, leaving every appearance of utter sincerity. “But who you’ve become -- and who you _want_ to be -- _that_ could be very interesting.”

A sad little laugh escaped Ziyal. “I’ve never had much of a chance to find out, on either score. I never finished school, I couldn’t join Cardassian society, I can’t fight at my father’s side--” She sighed, fingers fidgeting with her napkin. “I know that’s why they sent me away. Nerys and my father, I mean. I’d only be a liability in battle.” Nerys had made that explicitly clear in just a few quick moves. She forced a smile and a nonchalant tone, as though what she was about to admit out loud didn’t _really_ matter. “I’m afraid that, so far, I haven’t made much of myself that’s useful _or_ interesting.”

 

*

 

Tora Ziyal wasn’t just interesting, Jadzia had decided. She was _fascinating_. For someone who took as much joy as Dax in seeking out all the infinite variety of life, Ziyal presented an irresistible draw: she was something utterly unique.

Oh, not biologically; there weren’t an abundance of Bajoran-Cardassian hybrids living, but they weren’t rare enough to be medical marvels all on their own. But Ziyal had something else. The young woman was still such a child in some ways, underdeveloped and unsure of herself, still such a fledgling — and yet Dax had glimpsed in her flashes of razor-sharp intuition, a wisdom that went well beyond either her age or her experience. She had hidden depths, and Dax’s insatiable curiosity had to get a closer look.

But compassion pulled her, too. Guilt twinged uncomfortably, that she hadn’t done more to help Ziyal settle in. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re here because Kira and Dukat just wanted to keep you safe, that’s all.”

“I know,” Ziyal said. She picked up her spoon and started swirling the teal liquid in her bowl. “I just wish… I wish they had trusted me more, to keep myself safe.” She pursed her lips, and when she continued, there was heat beneath her usually cool voice. “My father _knows_ the only happiness I’ve had since my mother died has been when I’ve been at his side, but he let Nerys convince him I couldn’t stay!” She let the spoon fall, clacking against the side of the bowl. “I’m trying not to be angry with either of them, but it does smack of some hypocrisy.”

Dax sympathized with Ziyal, but she also knew precisely why Kira had wanted her off the bird-of-prey, and why Dukat had agreed. Any parent would. Well, any non-Klingon parent, at least. “They both care for you, Ziyal,” she said. “Neither of them would want to see you get hurt.”

“I’m sure they do care about me, but that’s no reason to have abandoned me!” A rare flash of temper, and Dax was almost glad to see it, proof that there was far more to this young woman than the meekness she’d been affecting since arriving on the station. “Caring for me is a weak excuse for pushing me away, because they also both care for—“

A swift look of pinch-lipped consternation crossed Ziyal’s face, then she gave her head a little shake, as though clearing the thought from her mind and countenance alike. The first expression reminded Jadzia of Dukat in a pique; the second had to have come from Naprem. What had she been about to say, though?

Whatever it was, she continued, in a more measured tone, “My father is a highly disciplined man, but he does grow fond of those who serve with him. It isn’t just duty. He sees the men who serve under him as… younger brothers, in a way. Losses distress him. And I know Nerys cares for a great many people here on this station, to say nothing of-- Her whole _life_ has been about loving people who might die in the next engagement. They’re both used to caring for people in harm’s way. I don’t see why I should be different.” She lifted her spoon again, an air of resignation replacing the anger that had so briefly flared. “So it can’t just be that. It’s because I’d be a liability. They just didn’t want to say that to me.”

Such keen insight into others, yet still, the child’s inclination to blame herself. She could see a situation clearly and obscured, at the same time.

Jadzia thought a moment, then scooted closer to Ziyal. “Ziyal, do you _want_ to fight? I don’t mean do you think you should. Take your father and Kira and anyone else out of it. You, in your heart — Do _you_ want to be a fighter?” When Ziyal did not reply immediately, Dax pressed on: “Do you feel eager when you think about battles? Exhilarated at the idea of fighting?”

“I felt… proud, I suppose, when we overwhelmed the Klingons. Glad to be alive, certainly. But did I enjoy it?” Ziyal shook her head. “No. I don’t think I could ever find joy in violence.”

“I didn’t think so. It’s not in everyone’s soul, Ziyal, and that’s _fine_!” Jadzia smiled. “Take it from someone who’s lived several lives. They weren’t all warriors. The artists and scientists in me were every bit as-- as wondrous and glorious.” She touched Ziyal’s shoulder, gave it an encouraging little jostle. “Every bit as worthy. You should be looking for the path that will make your soul sing, not one you feel obligated to follow.”

“And how--” Ziyal paused, her eyes flicking quickly around the room. “How do you figure that out? I confess, I feel as though I’ve spent my entire life adrift, or at least always a passenger, going along wherever someone else was willing to take me. I have no idea how to set my own course.”

The girl had the soul of a poet, that much was becoming clear to Jadzia. As for what to do with it--

“I tell you what,” she said, “Keiko O’Brien is going to be returning to the station from Bajor soon. She used to teach school here-- Now, I’m not suggesting she become _your_ teacher,” Jadzia rushed to clarify, upon seeing a skeptical expression flit over Ziyal’s features. “But she might have some ideas for you about remote courses you could take, or other ways you could start exploring your interests. And then you can go from there.”

Ziyal was still looking more at the rest of the room than at Dax. “And she wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Jadzia was glad she could reply unreservedly. Keiko had summoned sympathy for a resentful Cardassian orphan; Dax was sure she’d be more than happy to help someone with as much potential and as much _yearning_ as Ziyal. “In fact, you might have to be more worried about an excess of enthusiasm. Once Keiko gets an idea in her head about something -- well, she’s not a half-hearted sort of person, I’ll put it that way.”

She said it as lightly as she could, and was rewarded with a light laugh. Then Ziyal was quiet a moment, considering. Dax resisted the urge to fill the silence, letting the girl work through her thoughts. “Keiko O’Brien -- that’s a human name, yes?” Dax nodded. “And so, I must assume, Starfleet?”

“Her husband’s an NCO -- Our Chief of Operations, actually. Keiko's a civilian botanist.”

“I’m sure my father wouldn’t approve.” But there was a twist at the corners of Ziyal’s mouth that indicated that that, in of itself, was not necessarily an impediment. “Do you think Nerys would? Approve, I mean?”

 _‘So that’s the role she’s decided to cast Kira in,’_ Dax thought. She supposed it made sense, based on what Kira had told her about what had happened on Dozaria. Kira had been Ziyal’s redeemer, perhaps even more than Dukat, since she had kept Dukat from filicide -- or, at least, given him the excuse he needed to avoid it. Some hero-worship was to be expected, but apparently Ziyal had also slotted Kira in as a sort of maternal surrogate.

She squeezed Ziyal’s hand. “Ziyal, I think Nerys would champion anything that would help you find your own path. _And_ , she would agree that Keiko is a natural choice to help you out. So, how about I take you to meet her in a couple of days, once she’s back on the station?”

“I think-- I think I’d like that.”

“Excellent!” Satisfied, Jadzia settled back in her seat, searching for a less-fraught topic of conversation. “Tell me, have you ever read the poetry of Iloja of Prim?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, Cardassian uniform pants *are* unreasonably tight, and that's a fact. Bless 'em.
> 
> This slow burn will start heating up more properly in the next chapter. ;)


	7. Agility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kira tries to get in a little sparring practice -- and Dukat can't leave well enough alone.

There were no holodecks on Klingon warships. Once that wouldn’t have bothered Kira in the slightest, but she had come to appreciate their value -- not only for recreation, but for preparation. On the station, she could almost always find a partner for sparring practice. Between the Bajoran militia and the Starfleet officers, there was always _someone_ around looking for training or exercise. On this ship, though -- Well, a holographic partner would’ve been preferable to asking any of the Cardassians.

She had settled for rigging up a dummy, of sorts: padding and spare blankets stuffed into a Klingon’s tunic and hung from a support beam in an empty room just off of the armory. Not much of an opponent, but at least it gave her something to aim at and provided resistance against her punches and kicks.

They had gotten lucky with the _Jul’pach_ ; their ambush was swift and successful enough that no hand-to-hand combat was necessary. Kira didn’t think they’d always be able to keep the fight at a distance, however. She didn’t want to assume that she could lock the Klingons out of their own transporter codes forever, which meant, sooner or later, they might get boarded. Any time they wanted to steal, not just destroy, they’d be in for direct combat. And there was certainly the possibility of running into Klingons on the ground at some point, not just meeting them in the void of space.

She would not allow herself to be anything less than ready for the fight.

 _Thump. Thump. Thwack_.

Plus, beating the stuffing out of her improvised-Klingon provided a welcome distraction from unsettling thoughts.

_Thwip-thwack. Thump. Thum-thump. Thud._

She had tried meditating in her quarters, but peace would not come. She had blamed it on the strange surroundings -- this Klingon ship with its red lights, loud thrumming, and hot air. Impossible to concentrate, really.

_Thwack. Thwump._

A quiet soul, though, would have been able to able to find peace in whatever circumstances. A quiet soul shouldn’t need comfortable surroundings, soft candlelight, and fragrant incense. She knew that, little though she liked to admit it.

 _Thudda-thudda-thudda-THWACK_.

So, physical exertion it would have to be.

And so far, it was working. Being so present in her body, focusing on her form, on the tone of her muscles and the power they could channel, it felt _good_. This was something she could control, familiar and satisfying. Her body responded to input as expected; it did as she told it. The stuffed dummy provided no unexpected stimulus. Strike, absorb impact, repeat. Simple as anything.

She _liked_ things simple. Or so she kept telling herself.

“Damar said you were in here.”

Dukat’s voice from behind her. _‘Dammit. Of_ _course_ _.’_ She had been so focused, she hadn’t even heard the door slide open.

Kira supposed, strictly speaking, she ought to come to attention, or at least turn to face the man she was still having trouble thinking of as her superior officer. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at the mock-Klingon and gave it another punch. _Thump_. “So I am.” _Thwack._ “Did you need me?”

“Always.” There was mirth brightening his voice. “But in this case, I actually thought I might be able to provide you with a service.” A slight, startled cough escaped Kira, and she covered it with another _thwump_ on the dummy. “A partner?”

Every word was perfectly innocent, set forth with no trace of innuendo, and yet Kira could feel his alternate meanings hanging in the air. She pointedly gave the dummy another walloping kick. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

“Whyever not? I can’t imagine your friend there is giving you much of a challenge.”

“I just--” _Thud._ “Don’t think--” _Thudda-thwap._ “It would be--” _Thwup._ “Appropriate!” A satisfying _thwump_ as she landed another roundhouse kick.

“Come now, Kira,” he said, his voice coiling richly around her name, as though he were inviting her to bed, not to a sparring match. “One might think you were afraid.”

She dropped out of her fighting stance, pushing a sweat-damp lock of hair out of her eyes as she finally turned to face him. “That,” she said, jabbing a finger at him, “is a pathetically weak taunt. You can’t really think I’ll—“

“Rise to the occasion anyway?” Dukat said, strolling closer to her. His posture was relaxed and easy, his smile teasing, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You will. I simply cannot imagine a scenario in which you pass up a perfectly good opportunity to strike me, as I’m sure you’ve desperately longed to do for quite some time.”

She couldn’t help it; she laughed. “And here I’ve always tried so hard to hide that impulse.”

His low, rumbling chuckle answered her laughter. “Of all the many endeavors to which I believe you could turn your hand with grace and success, my dear Kira, I would not suggest a career on the stage. You lack even the faintest modicum of ability to conceal what you’re feeling.” The thought was a bit chilling, considering what a jumble her emotions had been lately -- and evidently that trepidation, too, showed in her expression, because Dukat cocked his head a bit and added, “Please don’t believe I mean that in any derogatory fashion! I’ve always found it one of your most charming traits, really.”

“Charming you has never been one of my goals,” she shot back, more out of habit than anything else.

“And yet, here we are.”

She settled her hands on her hips. “Well, congratulations, you have me wanting to punch you.” But she could feel the grin tugging at her mouth even as she said it. “Fine! If you’re determined to be knocked on your ass, who am I to deny you?”

She did not miss the flash of triumph in Dukat’s eyes, but chose to ignore it. “Very gracious of you, Kira,” he drawled, going to the side of the room and unclasping the fasteners of his bulky triangular chestplate.

Kira arched an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“Seeing as this is a friendly match, I wouldn’t want to hurt you inadvertently. The armor is solid enough to crush your hand, should it get pinned down.” He flicked a glance over his shoulder. “Besides, you wouldn’t find it nearly as satisfying for you to punch as my tender flesh.”

Kira snorted. “‘Tender’, indeed.”

“I’ve also been considering,” he added, as he slung the chestplate to the floor, “that some alterations to the standard Cardassian uniform might be in order, given the nature of combat against Klingons.” Kira’s eyes widened. “This armor was designed for fighting the Federation and other opponents who favor energy-based ranged weapons.”

“But Klingons like to get up close and personal,” Kira finished the thought.

“Indeed. And since, when they do use ranged weapons, nothing much turns aside a Klingon disruptor blast anyway, we might as well have something that affords us greater mobility when dodging limbs and blades.” His expression was somewhere between rueful and amused. “It has not escaped my notice that Starfleet has done well enough against them, even in those flimsy jumpsuits. Surely something could be designed that incorporated sufficient defense against energy weapons while still allowing for a more agile approach to combat.”

Kira’s lips twitched impishly. “I do know a good tailor who might be up to the challenge.” Little though she liked Garak, she was not above invoking him to tweak Dukat. A low growl was all the response she got from that, as Dukat rotated his shoulders in a slow stretch.

It was typical of him, really, that he intended to propose changes to a uniform that he currently had no control over -- that he _could_ have had control over, if he’d taken up his position as military advisor to the Detapa Council. They might not survive this mad endeavor against the Klingons, and he knew that -- but he’d be making plans anyway, to be implemented should he ever regain that power.

 _‘Adaptable,'_  she found herself thinking again. It made him a survivor.

It made him dangerous.

Kira couldn’t remember ever seeing him without the heavy triangular plate armor before. Stripped of that and the padding that went beneath it, Dukat cut a much trimmer figure. Despite his height, Dukat was not nearly so broadly-built as most Cardassians. Not the stocky frame of a bull, but the lean grace of a prowling wolf. The shirt he wore beneath armor and padding had a wide-cut neck, enough to expose a hint of his clavicle ridges.

Annoyed with herself for noticing, Kira pushed her mock-Klingon out of the way and got herself into a fighting stance. “Ready?”

He answered by aiming a strike at her left arm, which Kira deflected -- and then they were off, trading feints, parries, and glancing blows at a rapid pace.

She quickly realized had to adjust her technique. The brute force she’d been using on the training dummy was no good against an opponent as swift as Dukat -- and for all her talk of wanting to punch him, she didn’t _really_ want to do him serious injury. Nor was he trying to damage her, that she could tell, though he wasn’t toying with her by pulling his strikes, either. It wasn’t a brawl, not a true fight, but a proper sparring session, just as if she were back in the Resistance, keeping her skills sharp without _actually_ pummelling a comrade.

He was good, she began to realize. He had never let rank lead to indolence, as she had seen some Cardassian commanders do. For all that he liked to occupy an office and issue directives from on high, he had not neglected the arts of combat that had gotten him to high position in the first place. She had seen that, briefly, when they had fought the Klingons, but now she had the chance to observe him more carefully. His reflexes were lightning-quick, and there was real power behind each blow.

He was good.

She was better.

When Dukat caught her arm across his chest, Kira only had a half-second to react before he found the leverage to throw her -- and so she hooked her ankle around his leg and pulled hard at the inside of his knee. _‘Cardassians,’_ she thought, as he lost his balance and went to the ground, dragging her with him. _‘For all their convoluted political machinations, they never apply enough versatility to their hand-to-hand combat.'_

Even though he kept a grip on her arm, Kira still had the advantage as they tumbled, and she knew how to grapple. In a moment, she had him flat on his back, one forearm pressed against his throat, her other hand gripping tightly on his arm. “Yield!” she called, half-laughing with triumph.

“Oh,” Dukat breathed, “I do.”

Only then did Kira realize the nature of her error.

Her already-pounding heart quickened further at the feeling of all that lean muscle beneath her: his strong legs clamped between her thighs, his bicep beneath her fingers. Worse still was the look in his eyes: nakedly hungry and utterly victorious, despite his supine position.

 

*

 

_‘What a glory she is.’_

He hadn’t let her best him. There would have been no thrill in that. She had simply fought better, and the blow to his dignity -- not to mention the slight ringing in his head from where it had cracked against the floor -- was a sacrifice well worth making to have won the coup he now saw playing out on Nerys’s expressive features.

Dukat held her gaze, willing her to read the full intent of his yielding. _‘For you, dear Nerys, I would be willing to surrender a great deal indeed.’_

She was wearing another of those delightful sleeveless shirts, and her bare skin was warm against his throat. _‘Bless the Bajoran intolerance for heat.’_ Her hand was now curled in a fist, but her nails had scraped against his clavicle ridge as she had forced him to the floor, sending a shiver straight down his spine. Her slight weight atop him was an intoxicating delight, and the press of her thighs around his legs -- Well, a man of looser discipline might have embarrassed himself.

He felt a slight tremor roll through her, and she released a shaky breath. The grinning triumph slid from her expression, replaced by uncertainty tinged with panic. Dukat remained very still, though he longed to lean up, capture her mouth, put a decisive end to her dithering.

She scrambled off of him, as though suddenly realizing she had held her position far longer than was necessary. She wiped her brow with her forearm, trying to look careless, then offered him a hand up -- which he was not too proud to take. Take, and hold, long enough to keep her close for another moment. “You see,” he breathed, “I told you that you wanted to hit me.”

A soft, chuffing laugh escaped Nerys, and she looked both alarmed and confused by the response. She didn’t know what to feel, what to think. Her instincts, her desires, her long-held grudges and biases, her self-control, all warred with each other, and the resulting turmoil of emotions had put her off balance. That was just what Dukat wanted, just the way to break down those shields she had charged up all around herself.

He released her and stepped backwards, into a fighting stance. “Again?”

She hesitated before giving a curt nod. “Again.”

So again they went, and again, back and forth in a game Nerys had to know she shouldn’t have been playing. Her continued willingness to engage left Dukat near-giddy. He strove not to let that distract him, to keep his focus precise, but it _was_ a challenge.

He was as fast as Nerys, and had more raw strength, but she could change tactics at a dizzying rate. Every time he thought he had figured out her pattern of attacks and parries, it changed. He found himself trying to analyze the shifts as they occurred, not to defeat her, but to incorporate them into his own style. _This_ , this edge-of-chaos versatility, the unpredictability that was sharp and decisive, not wild and uncontrolled, this was what he so admired, what gave her such a tactical advantage. Her mind was incredibly agile, and that was certainly something a Cardassian could appreciate. Combined with lithe form and indomitable spirit? _‘Utterly alluring.’_

She knocked him flat more often than he managed to trip her up, though not by a wide margin. Now, she sprang back nearly as soon as they landed. When it was Dukat doing the pinning, he lingered a fraction of a second longer than was necessary -- just enough to keep her off-balance, without provoking her into calling off the bouts.

And then, just as Dukat had gotten a clinch hold on Nerys’s arm and was applying pressure to try and force her to her knees, while avoiding the vicious jabs aimed at his midsection from her unsecured hand, the door slid open.

“Sir--”

Dukat felt Nerys go ice-still. He released her immediately, straightening, not so much to spare her embarrassment as to make sure Damar did not mistake the sparring for an actual fight and try to intervene.

Nerys would’ve been pink all over, if she hadn’t already been flushed from exertion. She barely acknowledged Damar before reaching for a towel she had previously tossed over a horizontal support strut in the corner. She rubbed it roughly through her hair, then buried her face in it, conveniently hiding the evidence of her discomposure.

“What is it, Damar?” Dukat asked, in as even a tone as he could manage, considering his breathlessness.

Damar’s eyes flicked curiously between his commanding officer and the Bajoran, but Dukat offered no explanation. It would have been beneath his dignity to do so. He _would_ , at some advantageous juncture, suggest that all his officers use the space for their own sparring practice. He wanted to suggest they apply to Kira for training, but even if some of them were willing, her style would little suit most of the Cardassian officers, built for bulk and strength, not swift dexterity.

And in any case, he wasn’t sure he liked the idea of anyone else on his crew laying hands on her.

“Sir, we’ve sighted the _Qapchu’_.” Kira’s head snapped up, still quite rosy. “And Kurvot thinks we can test the holofilter.”

“Excellent!” Dukat stooped to lift his armor. “Alert the rest of the crew.”

“We’ve…” Again, Damar’s eyes darted between Dukat and Kira. “We’ve got about ten minutes before we’re in communications range.”

Dukat grinned. _‘How thoughtful, Damar.’_ He shouldered his armor, not troubling to clasp it just yet, since he’d have time to change into a fresh undershirt, at least. “First Officer Kira and I will be on the bridge momentarily. Tell Kurvot to be ready.”

Damar turned to go, but Kira was already bolting out the door, half-shoving him aside in her rush to make sure Damar understood she and Dukat weren’t leaving that room _together_. Damar’s face contorted in annoyance, but Dukat had to suppress a laugh. _‘Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy yourself, Nerys.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who's left kudos, and double-thanks to everyone who's commented! It's a great joy to know that I'm entertaining folk besides myself.
> 
> Also, y'all, I finally finished watching S7, and I am Displeased. As many of you warned me I would be. So I'm just going to go on merrily with this AU of mine. ;)
> 
> When will I be able to update? Well, I was able to get this chapter up as a palate-cleanser for my writing brain, after finishing the first draft of my second novel. Now, though, I must revise! I should be able to return to fanfic in another month or so, once the novel manuscript is with my editor, so with luck, I'll get the next chapter to you before the end of the year. (For more on my novels and other projects, hit up my website -- cassmorriswrites.com).


	8. The Garrison on Heshar Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emboldened by their victories thus far, Kira and Dukat take on a Klingon garrison on an occupied Cardassian moon.

The attack on the _Qapchu’_ went off without a hitch. Two attacks later, the Klingons had started to catch on, as Kira had predicted they would, to the fact that they had a rogue vessel in their fleet. So Kurvot set himself to spoofing as many transponder signals as he could come up with. Until they came into visual range, the _Hov’taj_ could now pass for a military, merchant, or civilian vessel. It could be Klingon, Cardassian, Federation, even Tzenkethi, at least long enough to set a plan into action.

They pretended to be a different bird-of-prey, joining an attack, only to sabotage the attackers. They pretended to be a wounded Cardassian vessel, only to spin about and disable the vultures. They would make themselves look like traders with attractive cargo, only to blast away at predatory vessels before they had a chance to cloak. They would lurk, cloaked, along a route they knew the Klingons would take, until a foe appeared before them -- though Kira preferred to rely on the cloak as little as possible, in case their opponents had picked up the Federation’s tricks of detection. If they couldn’t destroy an enemy vessel outright, they aimed to disable, causing as much damage as they could before cloaking and fleeing.

Dukat hadn’t liked that tactic, at first, but another lecture about renegade flexibility taking priority over Cardassian rigidity forced his concession. “Any day they have to stop and make repairs is a day they’re not attacking Cardassians,” Kira forcefully reminded him. “Take every scrap of victory you can.”

Their successes were not always unqualified, but they always got away with no more than a few scrapes and easily repaired damage to the ship, and for several weeks, they stayed so busy that Kira began to forget how odd the whole situation was. The Cardassian faces surrounding her began to look familiar. As her Kardasi improved and conversation became easier, she learned more of their personalities: grim, determined Damar, who was devoted to his commander; clever Kurvot, who spoke much better Bajoran than he had initially let on; Gherem, young and curious and eager to please; Toren, the oldest among the set, who had, like Dukat, suffered some disgrace back on Cardassia and had to accept the indignity of a diminished position; Mavek, who had wanted to go into the sciences rather than the military, but had been discouraged by parents who thought that a more suitable career path for his sister.

And then, of course, there was Dukat, omnipresent.

They had not fallen into a pattern, exactly. The semi-spontaneous nature of their attacks on the Klingons prevented anything so predictable as that. Some days, it seemed they hardly saw each other, taking opposite shifts so that one of them was always available to keep watch. Some days, they were hardly apart, their skills yoked together to ensure seamless victory. But Dukat never missed an opportunity to suggest that they take a meal together or keep themselves sharp with another sparring match.

And Kira _almost_ never turned him down.

She wasn’t sure if the whole mess was getting easier or more difficult to explain to herself. On the one hand, strange as it was, she’d started to feel at times almost comfortable around him. He could be so charming, when he chose to be. They had developed a syncopation on the bridge, anticipating each others’ moves and needs. His affability with the crew extended to her, but more, she knew she had his respect. His trust, even.

On the other hand, she could _never_ feel entirely at ease around him, however companionable their routine became. He couldn’t resist needling her at times, deliberately provoking her into a pique. Though they had stayed carefully away from the topic of the Occupation ever since Soukara, he frequently challenged her on points of Bajoran philosophy, and if — _when_ — she grew heated, it only seemed to delight him. “Forgive me, Kira, but you are so lovely when incensed,” he explained once, which of course infuriated her more.

And then there was _that._ The flirtation, constant as ever, which would have been so much easier to brush off if her skin didn’t feel like it was on fire every time he drew too close to her. How _could_ she ever be truly at ease, when the man’s sheer physical presence ratcheted a troubling tension straight through the core of her?

_‘If you want it to stop,’_ said a voice in her head, which sounded an awful lot like Jadzia’s teasing lilt, _‘then don’t give him so many opportunities.’_

But she didn’t stop.

Annoyingly, she did have to admit that Dukat was… well, brilliant. Once you got through the layers of arrogance and pontificating, at least. Over dinner, he could discuss Bajoran art and literature as easily as military strategy — and was likely to hop from one to the other, his agile mind slipping easily between metaphor and reality. Not that he restricted himself to Bajoran and Cardassian culture, either. He was fascinated by the split between the Vulcans and the Romulans, eager to plumb Klingon legends for hints as to how they might guide modern strategy, and amused by the sheer prolixity of Terran fiction during their pre-warp centuries.

Somehow, during one such discussion, she wound up giving him an account of some of the classic Terran-based holonovels Jadzia had dragged her into.

“So there I am, in this ridiculous cake-dress — I swear, you could’ve hidden half a platoon under this thing — supposed to be playing all wilting and delicate—“

“That,” Dukat broke in, “I cannot imagine.”

They were outside the unofficial sparring room, waiting for Kurvot and Gherem to finish up. No doubt the junior officers would have ceded the space with alacrity, but Dukat had declined to interrupt them. He was sprawled comfortably on the floor, back against the wall, knees bent and splayed. Kira stood across from him — always better, to take the advantage of height when she could — leaning against the opposite wall.

“Well, neither could I, clearly,” she replied. “Because after another minute of chivalric nonsense, I grabbed the damn shotgun out of the cowboy’s hands and took care of the bandits myself.”

Dukat laughed, slapping one thigh. “Of course you did! I imagine Lieutenant Dax was—“

“Less than amused? Yeah, you’d be right.” Kira flapped one hand in a gesture of . “I guess I still haven’t gotten the hang of make-believe, despite her best efforts.” Her lips quirked up in a small grin. “The shotgun was fun, though. Kicked like a beast.”

Dukat was still laughing when the door hissed open. Kurvot’s eyes shot wide when he saw his commanding officer sitting on the floor. “Sir! I—“

But Dukat was getting to his feet, clapping Kurvot’s shoulder in that genial way he had. “Good session, gentlemen?” He wagged a finger at Gherem. “I see a bruise starting there. Stop by the medbay and take care of it before you go back on duty.”

“Yessir.”

“And have someone get me an estimate on when the repairs will be done.” The _Hov’taj_ was currently skulking in empty space while repairing their communications array and secondary disruptor cannons, which had sustained hits in their last engagement. “I’d like to start making our next attack plans when I get back to the bridge.”

“Yessir.” Kurvot and Gherem both nodded respectfully at Kira as they passed, without any of the hesitation there had been in the first weeks of this madcap endeavor.

_‘Respect, from Cardassians. Maybe I’m good at playing make-believe after all.’_

 

*

 

In the wake of so many successes, they began to feel confident -- and more ambitious.

By now, the information they had captured along with the bird-of-prey was beginning to be outdated, as the planned dates for attacks passed, or as the Klingons altered their intentions to deal with the rogue element in their midst. Some things wouldn’t change so quickly, though. A ship was easier to move than a base.

The garrison on Heshar Moon was well-shielded against energy weapons. They might be able to break through, if they pounded away long enough, but they’d be at the mercy of planetary defense systems in the meantime.

The garrison itself, however, was a weak point. Heshar Moon wasn’t of grand strategic importance, so the Klingons had pulled resources from it to augment the patrols on other occupied planets. By a strictly military assessment, Heshar Moon wouldn’t be worth retaking, but the shame of losing the outpost would be a significant sting to the Klingons. It had taken half an hour of arguing and several pointed reminders about the objectives of guerilla campaigns as opposed to major military offensives, but Kira had brought Dukat around on that point.

Kurvot’s clever holo-filter had gotten them past the orbital defences and onto the planet, even given them a landing pad close to the garrison’s base -- a repurposed Cardassian training facility. The security codes they had from the _Hov’taj_ would, hopefully, open the doors. After that...

_‘Me and a handful of Cardassians against a Klingon garrison. What could possibly go wrong?’_ Kira thought as she armed herself. A disruptor pistol at her belt, another tucked at her ankle, her own Bajoran phaser on her hip, and a wide selection of blades, strapped to every limb. She’d modified several of them; Klingons liked their weapons massive and, to her mind, unwieldy. Kira preferred hers light and sleek.

Once kitted out to her satisfaction, Kira made a round through the bridge to check on the crewmen who would be staying behind, then darted into her office to download the schematics of the base into her PADD.

Dukat was within, evidently waiting for her. He looked utterly at ease, his hip resting against the table in the center of the room, with none of the tension one might expect from a commander about to lead troops into battle.

Kira knew better, by now, knew how fast he could shift from casual indolence to lethal focus. Still, she quirked an eyebrow at him as she strode to a side panel and started the download. “Need something?”

“Just a brief word with my First Officer before a mission.”

Kira snorted. “Dukat, you’ve never had a _brief_ word with anyone in your life.”

He smiled, sidling up beside her. “A fair strike. Actually, I was half-expecting you to give me some honorable diatribe about the captain not taking part in away missions, particularly dangerous ones.”

Kira tapped a few commands into her padd, configuring the display for easy access. “Please. I’m not and have never been Starfleet. The leaders of Bajoran resistance cells tried not to risk themselves unnecessarily, but they sure as hell didn’t sit back in a bunker when there was action to be had.” She unhooked the padd and flung herself into the nearest chair to review the information. She wanted to have the schematics on-hand, in case their plan went awry -- as plans so often did -- but better to have as much of it freshly in her mind as possible.

She could feel Dukat’s eyes on her, and familiarity had dulled her practice in ignoring his impertinent stares. She flicked her eyes up from the padd -- and only then noticed that Dukat had something in his hand. It was small enough that she couldn’t tell what it was, even as he absently flipped it over between thumb and fingers.

She waited for some explanation, but none was forthcoming. Dukat’s blue eyes seemed to be taking her in with as much intent as she had been scanning the schematics, as though he were trying to memorize her.

_‘He is so much easier to deal with within… certain bounds.’_ When they were both focused on a goal, working towards the decapacitation or destruction of a Klingon vessel, she could almost forget… _‘Forget what, Kira?’_ Not who he was, certainly. There was no forgetting that, not ever -- and at the same time, she had accepted that he was not, quite, who she had once thought him.

No, what she had to forget was the little thrill his focused regard elicited inside her. How her heart quickened, her skin grew hot, her core tightened. She didn’t want to examine what that meant, what it might grow into, if left unchecked, and so it was so much easier -- so much _better_ \-- to forget it.

And it was so hard to forget, when he looked at her like that.

Kira cleared her throat, nodding her head at whatever Dukat had in his hand. “What’s that?”

Dukat blinked, then looked down at his hand, as if only then remembering that he held the object. “Ah. Yes.” He leaned over, placing his hand on the table -- just close enough that she could feel his heat. “I… did some tinkering with the replicator.” When he took his hand away, Kira saw a small enameled piece. A combadge, she realized as she picked it up. “For away missions of the sort we’re about to embark on, we can’t have you going any longer without a universal translator.”

“Kurvot got something working?”

“He did. A remarkably clever young man, which is of course why I elected to keep him on my staff. But -- I didn’t think you’d be sanguine about the idea of wearing a Cardassian emblem. Perhaps this will suit.”

It was a simple design, a black square with a golden border, but what most caught Kira’s attention was the delicate symbol etched on the sable field: an ideogram that looked almost like a small stylized flame. The Bajoran word _kejal_ : freedom.

A warm smile spread over Kira’s lips. She looked up and realized that Dukat’s scrutiny of her held something other than his usual supercilious intensity. _‘It’s annoying, how much less punchable he looks without smugness written into every aspect of his expression.’_

And then she realized what it was, the emotion that had blunted the incisive gleam in those startlingly blue eyes. _‘Hope?’_

Kira raised the combadge and fastened it to her shirt. “Yes. Yes, Dukat, it will suit.”

 

*

 

Cardassians didn’t love battle for its own sake, not the way the Klingons did, but they did love the glory of victory.

_Anticipating_ that glory was a stimulant in its own right, though. For too long, the _Hov’taj_ ’s successes had been paltry things. Kira could say what she liked about being a thorn in the Klingons’ side, about taking whatever victory you could get.. She might even be _right_ , for their circumstances. That renegade’s mindset was why he had needed her on this escapade in the first place. But it wasn’t _satisfying_ in the way a Cardassian expected. To be no more than a gnat, buzzing in the Klingons’ faces, when they held Cardassian worlds under their heel--

Well. Dukat was grateful for the opportunity to take one of those worlds back, even if it were only a little moon. At last, a loss the Klingons might actually notice, might suffer for. _‘And where one world falls, others may follow.’_

Somehow, Cardassia would reassert itself. Somehow, they would throw off their Klingon oppressors. Somehow, they would restore themselves to greatness.

He glanced down the side of the building, where his team waited while Kira input her stolen codes. _‘Sooner or later, those are going to stop working. Fortunately, the Klingons are long on brute violence and short on critical thinking skills.’_ Damar and the others were at the ready, weapons in hand. There would be satisfaction, too, in killing some Klingons face-to-face, rather than in the anonymity of space: they would die knowing that Cardassia was on the rise against them.

For all the tension, standing on the brink of action was a multi-faceted pleasure for Dukat: the intellectual challenge, the exultant power of commanding men in battle, the excitement at the thought of taking vengeance on the Klingons, the fierce determination hardening Kira’s jaw and sharpening her eyes.

Kira closed the security panel and, with a hissing exhalation, slipped her padd back into her pocket. They all waited, hardly breathing, while the codes processed. If these failed, they would have to choose between trying to break in by force, waiting for the Klingons to notice the breach and coming out to greet them, or beating a hasty retreat back to the _Hov’taj_.

They were spared decision and indignity alike: after another few seconds, the blast doors slid open.

“Move in,” Dukat said. “No quarter given.” An unnecessary order. The Klingons would rather die than be captured, and the Cardassians were in no mood for leniency. But it felt necessary -- and his eyes were on Kira as he said it. Certain words about preferring non-lethal measures rang in his memory.

But she gave a stiff nod of acknowledgment. If she had any reservations about their mission objectives or means of achieving them, she gave no sign of it in the determined set of her shoulders or the resolute glint in her eyes.

 

*

 

The garrison was small, but so was the Cardassian strike team, and their progression through the base was a bloody one.

The remaining Klingons barricaded themselves in the control center, no doubt calling in reinforcements. _‘Or trying to, anyway,’_ Kira thought, as she watched Dukat wrench open a security panel in the wall and wire a padd into the power relays and other cables that came loose when he did. Kurvot had remained on-board the _Hov’taj_ , blocking the base’s subspace communications array.

“As I thought,” Dukat murmured as he fiddled with the panel.

Kira didn’t ask what was as he thought; his instinctive need to narrate his own life would reveal that in due course. _‘Asking would only encourage his ego.’_ Instead she kept a careful eye down the corridor, sighting along the line of her pistol. She thought they had taken care of all of the Klingons who weren’t in the control center, but she didn’t want to risk being caught by surprise.

After a moment, Dukat proved her right -- and she had to smile as he intoned, “The Klingons overwrote the security protocols, but they didn’t bother to wipe the old Cardassian programs entirely.” His fingers flicked over the display on his padd. “In just a moment, I should be able to activate an override.”

Another long moment hung in the air. While Dukat worked on the codes, Kira flicked her eyes over at Damar, flanking Dukat on the other side of the corridor. He nodded his readiness -- his eagerness, even. However little Hehsar Moon might matter on a military scale, for this crew, it would be a victory worthy of the ages.

_‘And a victory they could only win with a Bajoran at their side.’_ Kira wondered if any of them except Dukat would appreciate that irony.

“I’m in.” Dukat’s fingers hovered over the padd while his troops re-arranged themselves, ready to storm the control room as soon as the doors opened. “Three. Two. One.”

A lighting storm of energy blasts shot across the threshold as soon as the doors retracted. The Klingons were not slow in responding. One of the Cardassians fell back, clutching his side in agony. Kira didn’t have time to see who it was -- she was too busy side-stepping the Klingon who charged her with a _bat’leth_. Her first shot singed his shoulder; the second hit him square in the chest. He staggered, but kept coming at her. Klingon physiology made them damned hard to kill, and anything less than an immediately mortal wound just seemed to make them angry.

A rough blow to the shoulder made Kira lose grip on her pistol. She ducked under another swing of the _bat’leth_ , slipping one of the blades strapped to her forearm into her hand. Three darting strikes of her hand, precisely targeted to key tendons, and the Klingon staggered. Gherem finished him off as Kira whirled to survey the rest of the scene.

Next to the main computer banks, Dukat was engaged with two Klingons at once. Neither seemed to be armed, though their blows were fearsome enough without weaponry. Kira reached for the pistol at her ankle, calculating how she could get off a clear shot, only to remember she’d already lost that one while scrapping with a burly Klingon several corridors back.

Dukat used a feint -- one Kira was fairly certain he’d picked up from her -- to get inside one Klingon’s guard and send him sprawling. The second, he managed to hurl away from him, sending his opponent straight into Damar’s line of fire.

Dukat turned, checking on his team -- but the first Klingon was back on his feet, and Dukat, bending to lift one of the other Cardassians off of the floor, hadn’t noticed.

Kira saw the drawn _d’k tahg_ with only a split-second to react. She couldn’t call out to warn Dukat; he’d turn to look at her, not the threat. Kira pushed herself off the wall, an explosive burst aimed right at the Klingon. The full-body-check was successful, knocking him away from Dukat.

The blade came down into her shoulder instead.

Searing pain nearly blinded her, followed by an agonizing tearing as the serrated edge yanked back out of her flesh. But he hadn’t hit anything immediately incapacitating, and Kira wasn’t going to give him a second chance. She aimed a savage kick at the inside of his knee. That was enough to unbalance him. A roundhouse kick to the side sent him careening into the wall, where a disruptor blast tore open his chest. Gherem’s shot, she realized, as the young Cardassian charged the half-dead Klingon with a bloodthirsty roar, firing several more blasts even once it was more than apparent that the threat had passed.

All threat, in fact, had passed. Kira wrapped her right hand around the opposite shoulder, trying not to think about how ragged the wound felt, or how much it was bleeding. No point in worrying; it wasn’t in a place she could tourniquet, and she didn’t seem to be dying, so it would just have to wait until she could locate a medical regenerator. “Report in!” she barked. “Who’s still standing?”

Three were down with injuries, but the rest seemed to have come through their wild charge intact. As Kira gave orders to remove the injured Cardassians to the base’s sickbay -- which she had no doubt was in better shape than that on the bird-of-prey -- Dukat approached her.

“You’re hurt.” His voice was neutral, but she noticed an odd hunch to his posture, a slight twitch in his smallest fingers. “You should be going with them.”

“I’ll be fine,” Kira bit off, in defiance of the evidence her own blood was providing. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been stabbed, and, Prophets willing, it won’t be the last.” Dukat cocked his head at that, eyes widening pointedly, and Kira scowled. “You know what I mean.”

Even as she insisted on her well-being, however, Kira became aware that her left arm was sluggish and heavy. She couldn’t lift it, could barely pull her fingers into a fist. Some nerve must have been damaged. There was blood -- a lot of it, creeping down her back and plastering her shirt to her skin. And with the adrenaline wearing off, there was _pain_.

Dukat’s face constricted in concern. “You are _not_ fine.” He almost sounded angry about it.

“I’ve had worse.”

“That’s hardly reassuring.”

“Who do you think knows better how badly injured I am, you or me?” Before he could answer, Kira rattled on. “Now we can stand here arguing about it, or we can finish securing Cardassian control of this base. Which would you prefer?”

Dukat’s jaw set, stubborn and aggravated, but he turned to Damar. “Take five of the others and sweep the base to make sure there aren’t any lingering Klingons hiding in the corners.” Then he slapped his combadge. “Kurvot.”

“Sir!”

“We’ve taken the control center. Lift the blocks on the communications array.”

Even as Kurvot’s voice piped back, “Yes sir!” in all eagerness, Dukat was moving to the comm station. Kira started to join him, then found herself light-headed, and leaned back against the nearest wall. If she could just get her bearings, just get this damned bleeding to slow down, she’d be fine, she knew it.

“Let’s see who’s out there…” Dukat said, tapping instructions into the comm station. “Kira, give me your padd, you downloaded the information for the local Cardassian prefect who  might be able to dispatch a fresh garrison to hold the station.”

Kira had to release her grip on her own shoulder in order to reach for the padd tucked into one of her pockets -- but she fumbled the clasp, couldn’t get a solid grip. And for some reason, it had gotten hard to breathe. Like all Cardassian colonies, Heshar Moon was warm, but not so much that it had affected her till now. _‘Get it together, Kira.’_

“Kira!” Dukat snapped, without looking up from the comm station.

She wanted to shout back at him, but couldn’t draw breath to reply. She sagged against the wall, still trying to get her padd out of her pocket, but now her vision was dimming. Then, Gherem’s voice, slightly panicked. “Sir, I think she’s--”

The last thing she heard before the blackness overtook her vision was Dukat, roaring, “ _Nerys_!”


End file.
